When It Rains It Pours
by Nomi001
Summary: A Joe piece requested by a friend. Summary: Joe always get rescued and come home whenever he was kidnapped. But what if this time, things got so bad that he did not want to come home?
1. Prologue

_Tukkie - I think this is the Joe-angst piece you ask for. It must have been three years since I last saw this piece. Long time. I only found a draft, so will have to 'upgrade' as I post. The more complete chapters will be posted faster, the more sketchy ones might take a while. Everything might take a while anyway because I have some activities coming up till end of Oct... Pls confirm piece... after I post chapter 1 of course.  
_

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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Prologue**

-o-

They say that bad things come in threes.

I wished with all my heart that I could believe in that. But for me, when it rains, it pours. And it is still pouring. It never stops.

If bad things only come in threes, then I know that it is all over. I know that it is finally safe for me to go home. I can finally let go of the mask of indifference that I wear and let the family that I know I still have hug me, comfort me, and love me.

But how does one know for certain? No, no one can. And therefore I must stay away; away from those I care for, and away from those that I might come to care for.

That is why I am alone now. So that no one else will get hurt on my account again. No one else will die because they came to care for me. I was once Joe Hardy. A series of happenings made me Joe Black. Black was for elegance and style. But I turned that elegance into tragedy and mourning. I am now Joe Black. That is what I am – Black. I am born under the bad luck star.

You might wonder; how did I come to that conclusion?

That is a long story. But here alone in my very own old and crumbling lighthouse perched atop a cliff overlooking the Great South Bay, I have all the time in the world. Like all bad luck stories, this story starts with a bad luck number.

I was thirteen when the rain started…


	2. Chapter 1

_Chromde, tired of snowflakes, franknjoe, Miss Fenway, thanks for enjoying the prologue. Snowflakes: those who read my stories knows when I get the angst right, that's either fluke or time to buy lottery - I actually won one based on the date of someone telling me - hey that's angst! ;p _

_Tukkie: Thanks for the Xiangsheng clips, you know how much I love MaJi. Here is Chap 1 - let me know if this is the right one. Nomi._

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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter One**

-o-

It is interesting how one can without even trying in hindsight, fits everything that ever happened into the numerology of bad luck. I did not want to believe in bad luck, but when everything fits so nicely as in my case, I cannot help but to believe.

My name as you know by now is Joe. Or rather Joseph, but I preferred to be called Joe. My biological father's name is Fenton Hardy. My biological mother's name is Laura. I have one brother who is a year older than me. His name is Frank.

My biological parents met in the summer of '74. They were both 19 and still in college. They married the year they graduated in '76. Frank was born in spring of 1977, I was born a year later. Dad continued working for the CIA in New York City, while Mom quitted her job at the State Library to take care of me and Frank full-time. Dad's job was highly demanding and he travelled a lot. So when Frank was nine and I was eight, Dad quitted the CIA and took up a much less demanding position as a detective with NYPD. With us both attending school and Dad spending more time with us, Mom took the opportunity to return to part-time work at the State Library. Five years later, Fenton Hardy at thirty-five became the youngest officer to make First Class Detective. We celebrated his promotion together in one of those fancy New York restaurants on the day I turned thirteen.

Those five years with Frank, Mom, and Dad were the sunshine days of my life.

It was thirteen days after my thirteenth birthday celebrations that Fenton Hardy was pulled in to assist the FBI in a seemingly straightforward case of financial fraud. Forty- eight year old Andrew Kempton and his only biological twenty-two year old son William was running a major financial scamming outfit. Unfortunately, that case took several sinister turns, and thirteen weeks later on Friday the thirteenth, my Dad was abducted and tortured by that very same father and son team for three days. He was barely alive when they found him, and he spent three weeks in the hospital.

You see what I mean now?

That was the last case my Dad wrapped up for the NYPD. He quitted the force soon after that, and we moved to Bayport, a nice and safe upper-middle income suburb by the Great South Bay just eighty minutes from New York City by the Freeway. And it was in this 'safe' neighborhood just a half hour east of Amityville where Al Capone ran his coastal smuggling operations through the 1920s and 1930s, that Fenton Hardy together with his friend and fellow detective from NYPD Sam Radley, set up their very own detective agency. They named their private enterprise The Hardy and Radley Investigations Inc.

None of us knew the real reason why we moved; not back then. And I still did not know what my Dad went through. But from what I remembered of what I went through…

-o-o-0-o-o-

It was autumn in the year 1991. The weather in New York City was nice and cool. Fenton Hardy was working late that night. He just had a few loose ends to clear up from the Kempton case before he could officially close the case and put it all behind him.

His eyes landed on the little 'thank you' note from Marianna and her teenage son Jonathan. Gladness filled his being. Both mother and son should be somewhere far away from New York by now with their new identities and enjoying their new lives.

'They need never fear again. Andrew Kempton and his son William were both heading for maximum security prisons with multiple and consecutive life sentences,' Fenton thought with much satisfaction as he wrapped up his report for his superiors.

Waving goodnight to the person on duty, Fenton left for home. Tired as he was, he left his pager at his office. And in doing so he missed that incoming message that might have changed everything that was about to happen to him and to his family.

Fenton took the same route as he did everyday to and from the subway. He had traversed that route so many times in the last five years; he could almost make the trip with his eyes closed. Occasionally a vehicle would sped by him. He paid them little heed. Instead, he found his thoughts going back to the Kempton case. He was still amazed at how sinister the case had gotten. It all started when he and his partner, Sam Radley, was roped in to assist in a major FBI sting operation to expose of the most successful 'Boiler Room' brokerage operations in New York City. Kempton and Son Investment was a 'chop shop' brokerage firm that runs a 'pump and dump' operation – pump up the price and then dump the poor investors after skimming off the profits. Within a week, the FBI and NYPD moved in taking both the owners and their brokers into custody, all of them being charged for wire fraud, mail fraud, extortion, stock fraud and many other white collar crimes. All of them were let out on bail pending court hearings.

That was where things started turning bad. Bodies started appearing in the darkest corners of the city, not necessarily mutilated; the coroner confirmed they either expired from fear or pain.

It turned out that Andrew Kempton and his son William had a hidden sadomasochistic side in addition running that highly successful scamming operation. Andrew Kempton was a failed med student turned serial torturer. None of his victims survived; they all died a slow agonizing death. William was clearly his father's son; at the age of ten, William watched his father tortured his mother to death for trying to leave them. For the next few years, the father and son team travelled from place to place, running a small investment operation scamming vulnerable old folks of their life savings. Along the way, they continued to hone their grisly talents leaving behind a trail of unsolved homicide cases.

Then Andrew hits upon the idea of a brokerage, and where else better than to create his company in the very heart of the financial world in Wall Street? As their company started to grow, they also lost the anonymity of the small time travelling salesman. But they still needed to exorcise their desire to inflict pain. So Andrew targeted a grieving widow with a young son and married her. With the child as hostage, Andrew found his outlet for his dark desires. In the meantime, William made life miserable for his much younger step brother.

Andrew and William could have gotten away with their numerous murders of not for their overly inflated ego. To terrify Marianna into compliance, Andrew boasted to her of all his 'achievements', and showed her the trophies he kept from each victim. Marianna and those trophies would soon become his downfall.

Fenton Hardy admitted that he was getting nowhere with the rising body counts until a chance encounter had Marianna making that fateful decision to trust and confide in him. From that point onwards, everything starting falling in place, and soon he was helping the FBI tie Andrew Kempton to at least another two dozen homicide cases all over America.

So engrossed was Fenton in the details of those grisly murders that he failed to notice a dark colored van slowing down next to him. Suddenly a stinky drunkard bumped into him and knocked him off balance – right into the opened doors of the still moving van. Something sharp and cold hits the base of his neck. Everything about him slowed. He watched through blurry eyes the van's doors slid shut. He felt the van move. And then it was all darkness.

_At least he now knew what all those victims had gone through,_ Fenton thought as he tried to access the extent of his injuries an unknown length of time later.

He was lying on his stomach on the slimy damp floor of some basement room. Every part of his body hurts. His eyes were so swollen he could barely open them. He could no longer feel his legs; his captors broke them to make sure that he could not run away. He felt every bit of the pain as he heard the loud dual crack of his tibia and fibula bones being snapped into two, one at a time. Andrew, Fenton knew, savored every second of his agony and every pitiful groan he uttered. In the following hours, he would come to fully appreciate Andrew's expertise in inflicting pain using a variety of impediments ranging from bare hands to knives to whips.

He gasped for breath. That movement sent a wave of fiery pain through his entire back. Fenton could not prevent a shudder from moving through him as his mind again recalled the soft whistle of the cat-o-nines as it traveled through the air before landing squarely on his exposed back, cutting deep into his skin and gouging bits of flesh off his back. When the second lash landed just an inch from the first, he knew the perfect control Andrew had over the use of that whip. By the time Andrew was done, his back was totally flayed.

Andrew wanted to know where his traitorous wife and step son was.

Fenton kept silent. There was no way that he would betray Marianna's faith in him, and there was no way that he was going to let this mad man gets his hands on her again. Later, he managed to keep silent only because he imagined that it was Laura and Joe that he was protecting. He would keep them safe at all cost, he vowed. Much later, Fenton was glad he had no idea where Marianna was, because he would have talked. That was how good Andrew was. And Fenton knew the only reason why he was still alive was that Andrew had deliberately kept him alive – for now.

He was alone in that basement now. God knows what Andrew and his son was planning up there. Fenton fought hard against the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he had been held captive for at least two days, and since he was a law enforcement officer, he knew exactly what that meant – his chances of getting rescued just plummeted.

There were footsteps coming his way. Fenton felt his heart constricted in fear. He fought valiantly to hide that sense of dread rising in him. The door opened. He did not like the look on William's face. He was terrified of the expression on Andrew's.

"You have been a worthy opponent, do you know that?" Andrew commented. "And what pleasures you have given me in the last few days!"

Fenton did not bother to answer. He needed to conserve what little strength he had left for whatever Andrew had in mind next for him.

"But I have decided that I don't need to take my vengeance on that ungrateful wife and son of mine anymore," Andrew announced almost cheerfully.

A really bad feeling started in the depths of Fenton's guts.

"Do you think your sons inherited your resilience?" Andrew asked in an innocent sounding tone.

Terror ripped through him as he realized who Andrew might be going after next.

"Do not worry, I am a fair man," Andrew continued with mocked assurance. "Since you took my younger son from me, so I will take your younger son from you. I can be a very fair man…"

"No!" Fenton wanted to yell back, but all that came out of his parch throat was a dry rattle.

"Jonathan's seventeen this year, and so I will come for your younger son some time after his seventeenth birthday. That would give you four more years with young Joseph, wouldn't it? That is, if you survived today. See, I can be such a nice person…" Andrew laughed at the terror and anger in Fenton's eyes.

If Fenton had the strength, he would kill Andrew with his bare hands on the spot. But two little helpless jerks were all that his battered body could take.

"Just remember, Fenton, that in four years' time, your younger son is mine. Mine to play with, and mine to torture… And just in case you die before that day, I will even tell you that he will grow to hate you, and he will die believing that it is you who wanted him dead," Andrew added most maliciously before nodding to his son. "So enjoy your remaining time with your son… if you can…"

"I believe my father had his fun, and now is my turn," William took over cheerfully. "I left a little clue with that partner of yours telling him where to find you. So you better hope that he is good, Mr. Hardy, because you have to hope that he finds you before you get eaten up alive by these starving black rats I have here…"

William set the cage down on the floor just a meter away from where Fenton was lying, shackled to the wall. He set the timer for the little trapdoor to open in two hours time.

"Good luck, Mr. Hardy," William stood up, ready to leave.

"I hope you survive, Fenton. I look forward to pitting my skills against you again," Andrew added.

With that, both the father and son left him alone in the basement. Soon the only sounds left were that of those hungry rats working to break free of their cage.

Most people would have been terrified to death in that situation. But Fenton had his family to worry about. He fought to stay alive. Sam would find him, he kept repeating to himself and he forced his battered body to move inch by inch to a more defensive position from those rats. He must live! And then he would have four years to hunt down the Kemptons. They would regret ever giving him the chance to fight back.

Sam was almost too late. The rats got to him first. They fed on him voraciously while he was too weak to fight back. But he survived, and that was what matters. He spent the next three weeks in the hospital recovering from his various injuries and fighting off the infections that followed. He spent the next few months on a wheelchair, and later with clutches.

He was furious to find out that the courts had granted bail to the Kemptons; that was how they got him in the first place. They jumped bail, as he expected they would. When his superiors moved him off the Kemptons case, and he found out why, he quitted in disgust. He used the small inheritance he got from his grandfather to pay for the house he bought in Bayport. And there, he set up his own private investigation firm with his partner. They would now be free of the politics that plague every bureaucracy.

He never told Laura what Andrew threatened. Laura, he felt, deserve to enjoy motherhood with her sons to the fullest – because he knew that he would never be able to unless Kempton was caught or dead.

Over the next four years, he built his business and his reputation. He hunted for Kempton whenever he could. Despite his efforts, he never found them. And on Joe's seventeenth birthday, he celebrated it with a smile on his face but with dread in his heart.


	3. Chapter 2

Miss Fenway, Chromde, Gotta love shoes, franknjoe, Kasey, Polaris: Thanks! I believe Phx is another big source of Joe-angst. Perhaps Stormwatcher if you like a touch of sci-fi.

Tukkie: sorry this took a while, but sick mommy plus sick toddler equals no time nor mood to write/upgrade. Yup, the part you mentioned was much later. This is an old story, and the writing I think, tells. I am compressing chapters sticking to the actions to get to the second part faster, I really do not want to drag. But you have to decide, do you want this story, or Looney Tunez. You can only have one. Cheers, Nomi.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Two  
**

-o-

I know I mentioned that the rain started when I was thirteen. But I did not mean that my teenage life was without happiness. As a matter of fact, I was a happy teenager – just that the happiness was a little… tainted. A tiny fracture had appeared in the bond I had with Dad. Over the next four years, I felt that fracture grew, and it seemed that no matter how hard I tried, I could not mend the break that I knew and feared was to come.

First, let me assure you that I do have a happy and healthy teenage life. Frank and I were close as could be, sharing the same dreams of following in our father's footsteps into law-enforcement. We love our new home in Bayport. After a decade in a cramp apartment in New York City, our two-story home at the corner of Elm Street was heaven. We have our own room connected by a shared toilet. We have a huge backyard with a sturdy oak tree on which we built our very own tree house. We attended the same school. I loved the gym and the football field while Frank drooled over the computing facilities. We made some wonderful friends: Chet Morton, Biff Hooper, Phil Cohen, Tony Prito and Jerry Gilroy.

Over the next four years, we all studied hard, played hard, and had numerous adventures together. We became best friends, helping each other out and cheering each other on – especially where ogling, wooing and dating girls were concerned. Hey, we were all young healthy males – not saints. The truth was that we all gave each other real crappy dating advice. We were all grateful for Frank's leadership and sacrifice: his first attempt at showing us how to approach a beautiful girl ended abruptly with a bright red imprint of a right hand on his left cheek. But as our unofficial leader said, we learned from our mistakes – I was so proud of my brave big brother. By the time I was sixteen and Frank was seventeen, we were all successfully dating and had at least one girlfriend each.

Everyone would tell you that I, Biff, and Jerry were the notorious heartbreakers of the gang. Biff and Jerry, who were both very talented and good-looking sportsmen, continued breaking hearts. Frank accidently knocked into a transfer student from Boston off her feet and ended up dating her after she gave him some valuable lessons on how-to-date-a-girl-without-stepping-on-her-toes. I utilized those very lessons to win over the heart of a very feisty dark-eyed beauty; Chet's very feisty sister, Iola. Tony Prito, after a long and arduous courtship, finally won over the heart of dark-haired and sultry Isabella Vanni. Phil Cohen took a lot of prompting, but he eventually plucked up the courage to ask Liz Webling out.

So there; I have a normal teenage life, but for my relationship with Dad…

For a long time, I could not explain what I felt was wrong between Dad and me. We got along great back in New York City. But after moving to Bayport, something happened that strained that wonderful relationship we used to have. For starters, Dad spent more time with me. No, Dad spent more time with _us_, and more attention on _me_.

After settling into Bayport, Dad started training us in investigative work in earnest. Frank and I were so excited. We listened as Dad discussed cases with us, taught us about logical deduction. He taught us how to extend our peripheral vision, how to appear inconspicuous, admonished us to always be aware of our surroundings. He taught us the importance of noting down details and remembering them. He trained us to look out for each other and effectively guard each other's back. As soon as I turned fifteen, he allowed us to help him and Sam with some grunt work in exchange for bonus pocket money. Dad also taught us other interesting skills that had mom frowning and other kids green with envy: lock-picking, getting free of ropes, getting free of cuffs, and when we were old enough, he taught us how to handle a gun.

Dad was particularly hard on me. I practiced memorizing details, picking locks and getting out of the tightest ropes and cuffs and rooms shaving microseconds off each attempt when Frank was not around. Still, I always got that niggling sense that Dad expected more. There were times back then when I thought Dad wanted me to become the next Houdini.

Then came my seventeenth birthday; Frank and the gang planned a huge birthday bash for me. I enjoyed it tremendously. It would have been perfect if not for the fact that I sensed Dad's eyes on me whenever he thought I was not aware. But Dad trained me well, and the darkness from Dad's gaze bothered me immensely. Actually, it chilled me.

Three weeks later, Iola died. She was killed in an explosion meant for me and Frank. My world went dark. With Frank's help, we managed to corner the Assassin responsible for Iola's death. He plunged to his death rather than get caught. There was no justice for Iola. I grew more reckless in my search for that elusive justice. My grades suffered. My friends and family worry; but I shut them all out. After several long months, I and Frank were given the opportunity to infiltrate the Assassins. We followed the trail all the way to Indonesia where we stopped a major conspiracy and brought down the leader of the Assassins. Actually, Frank did. Frank figured out the simulations, the location of the bomb, and defeated the Assassin leader.

There, justice was served! But for some inexplicable reason, my darkness grew. I sank deeper into depression. My grades in school slipped to borderline, and after numerous ineffectual lectures, Dad suggested I dropped out of Bayport High Football Team to focus on my academics.

I snapped.

"You are seventeen, Joseph. You have to learn to be more responsible…" Dad started his standard lecture in the privacy of his home office in a reasonable tone after one very tense dinner.

I hated that tone. I hated that name. I even hated 'Joe'.

"… like Frank?" I snarled. "Frank's responsible, meticulous, careful, mature, intelligent, smart, neat, considerate, punctual, reliable, dependable… He's perfect. He got a perfect 4.0. He even looks like you…"

I was so mad; I was shaking uncontrollably. Sure we had had our arguments, but I had no idea how much bitterness, resentment, and tension I had chocked up in the last few months.

"But I am not Frank, Dad. I am not as talented or smart or skilled as you or your favorite son is. I am just another average Joe trying to make do with what little brains God gave him. All those extra training that you gave me is not going to change anything. I am sorry you have such a crappy younger son…"

"Joe…"

"Football is the only thing I am doing well in now, Dad. Not only well, but very well," I pleaded – I was still the star player on the school team. "If you take that from me, I would have nothing left… nothing…"

That was when I realized I was not exactly mad. I was hurt, I was lost, and I was scared. I was very scared. I felt Dad slowly slipping away from me over the last four years. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed that I could never perform as my Dad hoped for. I used to maintain a B average with minimal effort. But since Iola's death, the gap between my grades and Frank's widened. I tried, I really tried. But the harder I tried, the more time I spent working, the worse I did. My brains died with Iola. One day I calculated my GPA and knew I could never catch up. Then Frank and Mom started talking about scholarships and Ivy League Colleges…

I stifled a pained laugh. Perhaps I already had nothing! What exactly was I fighting for? Iola's gone, and the last thing I wanted to do would be to keep Frank from the bright future everyone said my brother was destined to have.

"I'm sorry Dad… I will tell the coach tomorrow. I'm going to bed now…"

I turned and headed for the door out of the private office. I ignored my Dad's voice calling out to me. There was nothing left to be said.

Suddenly, I found myself locked in my Dad's tight embrace. I thought I heard my Dad saying 'sorry' and that he did love me over and over. I listened without comprehending, my arms hanging limply by my side. Having faced my loss and my deepest fears, I was suddenly blessedly numb. All I wanted to do was to go back to my room and sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, I could start again all over. But all I wanted to do now was sleep.

But Dad did not let me go. Instead, he cupped my face with his hands and forced me to look at him.

"Listen, Joe, please…"

This time I heard the desperation in Dad's voice.

"I love you. I never stop loving you, and I do not love Frank more. I love you both equally. Nor are you just another average Joe. You are skilled and talented in your own way… You are everything a father hopes for in a son…"

Dad must have seen that skepticism in my eyes. I was recalling all those lectures I got when I was too slow, or too impulsive, or too careless, or too irresponsible, or too lazy…

"It was me. It was always me, not you. I kept pushing you harder and harder because I was scared. Not because you aren't good enough…"

_Yeah. Because I was careless and impulsive and put yours and Frank's lives at risk…_

"It was me, Joe," Dad repeated firmly, and then more desperately when I failed to react. "It was me, son. I'm so sorry I made you think otherwise. But it was me. You and Frank were already so much better than I was at your age. You are already so much better than I was at your age. But still I kept pushing you… After Iola died, I should have given you the space to grieve and to recover. Instead I kept pushing you because I am scared of losing you. I kept pushing you because I needed you to be better to cover for my own fears, and to cover for my own failures in keeping you safe. I was unfairly pushing you to be better when I should have been pushing myself… I had no right to pile my fears and guilt and failures on you…"

_It was so strange to see Dad rambling. It was even stranger to see Dad crying. _Slowly, my hand reached up to wipe away some of those tears. I made my Dad cry._ That was just not right… _

"I am so sorry for what I did. I am so sorry I undermined your confidence. But son, you are not another average Joe," Dad continued fiercely. "You may not be getting 'A's like Frank did, but you are definitely very skilled and gifted in your own way. You used maintained your B-average with little effort, and I am sure you could do that again once you get over this depression. Sometimes, we just need to take some time-out to recover. I know you have a very generous heart. That, son, is more valuable than perfect grades. All those time when you let your friends think you the fool, and let them laugh at you at your expense, so that they all had a good time at parties or outings – I know, son. I was there watching. I know why you had so little savings. I know what you did with all those extra money you earned from me and all your part-time work. Those kids at the other end of town; you played with them, got to know them, treated them to healthy food, talked them into doing something worthwhile with their lives. I know it looked like I disapprove of the time you spent with them. But I was actually worried because the East side is a dangerous place. Do you know that one of those kids will be starting his course at the Police Academy next month? I am very proud of what you did…"

_Dad knew? He was proud of the fact that I convince Tommy to try for the Police Academy? _That surprised me. I did not think that Dad would approve of me spending all those time with the biker gangs and all those other kids from the East side. Most of my friends thought they were bad influence.

"I am very proud of you…"

I always wanted to hear those words from Dad. Yet somehow, hearing them now did not fill me with joy as I expected. In fact, I felt nothing. I was just too emotionally wrung out over the events of the last few months. Still, my innate sense of curiosity push me to ask the questions that I know Dad had yet to answer.

"What are you scared of, Dad? What happened when I was thirteen?" I knew everything started there.

That was one sad smile on Dad's face; it was a regretful smile. "I've always known that you would make a very good detective, son. Do you still doubt yourself?"

Dad sighed and continued when I did not respond to his praise.

"In a nutshell; one of the most vicious serial killer I ever come across in my career threatened to take you away from me sometime during your seventeenth year. I spent the last four years trying to find him, but I failed. That was why I pushed you so hard. I wanted you to have the best chance of getting away should I fail to find him before your seventeenth birthday, and later precisely because I failed…"

"Why me? And why my seventeenth year?" I asked, even though from somewhere deep within me, I knew it had to be me. I was just born on the wrong day – on Friday the thirteenth.

"Do you want to know the whole story?" My Dad asked after emitting another long and heavy sigh.

I nodded and watched as Dad reached into one of his cabinets for a thick file that looked like it was falling apart. It was clear that Dad had gone through it very often. When I looked up again, I suddenly saw that Dad looked really old and burdened. His movements were slow, and his eyes were deep and shadowed and… lonely.

Dad kept everything to himself so the rest of us, Mom, me and Frank, could enjoy the last four years! I Dad was not totally successful, and I certainly bore part of the brunt of his failure. But I also felt better – Dad really loved all of us.

"Don't worry, Dad. I promise I will be careful," I tried to assure Dad. "And I am seeing the school counselor…"

Dad looked as if he was going to cry again. I would not let him. I pushed for the details of what happened.

"But I really need to know what to look out for…"

Dad nodded and started talking. That was the start of a new stage of father and son relationship between me and Dad. We chatted and discussed that Kempton case late into the night. Surprisingly, Mom and Frank left us alone. I was grateful. We agreed that we would tell Mom and Frank the very next day – that night was for me and Dad.

I cherished every minute.

That was the last time I saw Dad for a long time.

When I woke up for breakfast the next morning, Dad was already gone. Mom said he rushed off after receiving an urgent call in the wee hours of the morning. However, Dad did tell Mom that we would all be having a family talk after dinner that day, that he would be home by six no matter what.

I never had the chance to build that new relationship with Dad.

When I saw Fenton Hardy again several years later, I did not remember him. All I knew was that Fenton Hardy ripped apart a happy family. He caused my mother's death. I would never forgive him…


	4. Chapter 3

**_Franknjoe, Nightwatcher, chromde, Mebabs, Polaris, Miss Fenway, thanks again for enjoying the last chapter. Hope you like this one too._**

**_Tukkie: Yeah, I cramp like 9 chapts into 2 - I just dont see the need to summarize everything from Right on Target to Pacific Conspiracy ;p By doing so, I miss out part of the closeness between brothers part, but than, that is a given. I'm sticking to action here, and I want to wrap it up in 20 chapts plus minus a couple rather than the almost 50 short chapts that I did some three years back. So, longer but fewer chapts here._**

* * *

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Three**

-o-

Fenton Hardy stood up wearily after he finished a cursory examination of the body that was so casually left sprawled by one of the major storm canals. He nodded to the forensic team, who swiftly moved in to process the corpse.

"It was Andrew Kempton," he said to his friend, Bayport Police Chief Ezra Collig, in a low tight voice.

A part of him was very afraid for his son; yet another part of him could not help that sense of morbid relief. The helpless waiting over the last seven months, not knowing when and how Andrew would strike, had his nerves stretched unbearably tight, almost to the breaking point. At least he now had something to act on.

His partner and close friend, Sam Radley nodded grimly in agreement.

"Are you absolutely certain?" Collig asked. "The MO for both deaths appeared quite different..."

Fenton closed his eyes as an involuntary shudder moved through him. The first victim had both her legs broken. It was a clean break, just like his was four years ago. He was still waiting for the forensic team to work out the real cause of death, something that could explain that terrified expression that was her death mask. This second victim had his back totally and evenly flayed by a cat-o-nine just like…

"It was what he did to me. Andrew knows that I will remember…" Fenton answered curtly.

Collig threw him a sympathetic gaze.

"These two died because of me…" Fenton could not help the guilt that assaulted him; Kempton came to Bayport because his family was in Bayport. _If only I had found the Kemptons earlier!_

"No Fenton," Collig rebuked gently; he had been helping Fenton with the Kempton case on and off over the last four years. "A serial like Kempton would have picked on someone regardless. Don't let his mind games get to you. Not now…"

"Ezra's right, buddy," Sam stated. "Remember, you still have a family to protect…"

Collig nodded. "I will arrange for increased patrol around your home and Bayport High. But you do need to consider protective custody for Joe…"

All three men winced. They all remembered what happened the last few times they tried to put either sibling into protective custody.

Fenton glanced at his watch. It was quarter past seven in the morning. His family should be having breakfast right now. He reached for his cell phone. Given that Andrew Kempton had made his first move, it was time to tell Frank and Laura everything. At least Joe already knew…

His fingers fumbled as he tried to dial the home number. Something tiny but significant was nibbling away at the back of his mind. He could not put his finger on what exactly that was. His feeling of unease grew as he finally managed to punch in the correct numbers and heard the first ring on his home phone.

"Come on, pick up the phone," Fenton muttered impatiently even as his mind never stopped working on the two murder scenes he went through in the past hour.

The first victim was a cleaner whose shift finished at eleven every night. She was assaulted just before she left the parking lot of her workplace. The security guard found her body at five this morning as he was doing his rounds. The second victim was spotted by a patrol car on its usual rounds at about quarter past six. Those two bodies were meant to be found at those times. That meant that Andrew Kempton had been lurking in Bayport for at least weeks, if not months, Fenton realized with a sinking feeling in his guts.

No one picked up the home phone and his call went straight to the answering machine. Fenton could feel his guts tightening in dread. He turned to inform Ezra, who was currently on the police radio, that he was heading home… now.

"Fenton…" Ezra turned a grim eye on him. "There's a third victim. This one had all his nails ripped off…"

"Where? Where was he found?" Fenton was fighting hard to keep his fear under wraps this time.

"Glenmore Lane just beyond the railway tracks…"

Fenton ran for his car. His suspicions were confirmed. Each victim was found progressively further and further from his home.

"Andrew's going for Joe now…" he yelled at Ezra, not bothering to hide his fears for his family this time.

His partner, Sam Radley, hopped into the passenger side of his car as he gunned his engines. The door slammed close as Fenton threw his car into reverse, and sped off. Fenton drove like a maniac; Sam was holding on tightly to the dashboard even though he had his seat belts on.

Even then, Fenton had a terrible feeling that Andrew already won the first round.

-o-

"Close that door!"

Shocked, Frank Hardy did exactly as he was told. For a moment, he simply stood and stared at his bathroom door. His brains were still in la-la-land; was that really his brother? His never-get-out-of-bed-until-he-had-to kid brother? Frank shook his head furiously, shaking the cobwebs of sleep from his still befuddled mind. He sneaked another peak and quickly slammed the door shut.

"Perv!" Joe's voice followed closely after the loud 'bang'.

Nope, he was not dreaming. Joe was actually taking his shower singing 'Hey Deannie', one of those songs that he composed with his little band when he was sixteen.

His kid brother was actually quite a good composer and singer. One of the major labels actually wanted to sign up the whole band, Frank recalled. He was so nervous during those few weeks when Joe was trying to decide whether or not to take up that contract. He remembered with more than a twinge of guilt how glad and relieved he was when Joe told him he turned down the offer.

"_Why? Didn't you always want to be a pop star?" Frank asked, hiding his relief. _

"_I admit it was tempting," Joe shrugged. "But I remembered our dreams of opening a detective agency together…"_

"_Joe…"_

"_Hey! Brothers, partners and best friends forever, remember?" Joe reminded him laughingly. "And while being part of the band is something I enjoy, it is really not what I want to spend my whole life doing. What I want is to become a detective like Dad, and being a teen idol is not a necessary part of that resume."_

_It sounded reasonable, but Frank knew Joe made that decision for them. So that they could both continue on the time line that he set up towards opening their own agency by the time they hit their mid-twenties. _

His brother was actually singing in the showers again! Joe stopped singing since the day Iola died. Slowly, a smile appeared on Frank's face. Joe and Dad must have worked out their differences somehow last night. Mom was right when she held him back, saying that the two of them needed some private father and son time to work things out.

"Your turn Frank!"

He opened the door. His brother was already back in his own room, leaving behind a wet and foggy bathroom. Frank hesitated for a moment before walking through into Joe's room. He spent the next few minutes watching his kid brother was still whistling and toweling dry his hair.

"Have I grown two heads or something?" Joe asked in an amused tone.

"Everything must have gone well last night," Frank commented.

The expression on Joe's face softened. "Yeah…"

"Joe?"

"Yes?"

"I just want you to be first to know of my decision…"

He could see Joe's back stiffening just slightly; he rushed to finish what he meant to say.

"… to take up the partial academic scholarship for Bayport University."

To his surprise, Joe simply stared at him for a long moment. And when his brother finally spoke, his voice was gentle but firm.

"You should take up that full scholarship to Stanford."

"But if I do, I won't be able to help out with Dad's case part time," Frank countered. "I know what you're thinking, bro. But being a Stanford graduate is not a necessary part of my resume."

"Hey! That's my line!"

Frank tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment before heading back into the bathroom to freshen up. This was one of the rare occasions when he was actually taking Joe's advice. It was usually the other way round, simply because he was the more cool-headed and reasonable brother in the relationship.

"I still think you should consider Stanford, bro. It's a great opportunity…" Joe said quietly.

"Bayport U has good lecturers too. And Dad and Sam are the best teachers for what I really want to learn," Frank replied. "I won't get that in Stanford."

"Mom will be disappointed…"

Frank disagreed. "I think Mom will be happy that I'm practically going to be just next door. She can drop in anytime."

"Are you sure that's what you want, big brother?"

"Yes!" Frank answered with his mouth still full of toothpaste.

"Oh man, I can't wait to tell Mom that you're looking forward to her dropping in on you 'anytime'," Joe laughed. "See you at the breakfast table!"

_What!_ Frank choked on his mouthwash. He tried to correct that misunderstanding, but his brother was already halfway towards the dining room. Frank cursed as he threw on his shirt and jeans, grabbed his school bag and raced after this brother.

"Morning Mom… where's Dad?" he heard Joe asked rather eagerly.

That was true. His Dad was usually the first at the breakfast table reading the papers. _Must be another new case…_ Frank decided. "Morning Mom…"

"He got a call early this morning and went rushing off," Laura confirmed placing another plate of toasts on the table. "I see you're late today, Frank."

"Mom, I'm later than Joe today, but still on time," Frank protested, though he noted from the corner of his eye that Joe seemed a little disappointed that Dad was not around.

"And oh, your father did say that we will be having a family discussion tonight, so you two make sure you be back home by six," Laura added.

"Any idea what Dad wanted to talk about?" Frank asked curiously.

Joe was digging into his breakfast with gusto; perhaps too much gusto, Frank thought.

Laura frowned. "Actually, I am curious too. Fenton sounded really serious, but refused to tell me anything else."

Two pairs of eyes turned to Joe, and focused on him with growing intensity until Joe finally lifted both hands in a placating gesture.

"Hey, if Dad said tonight, then tonight it is," Joe declared defensively. "My lips are sealed."

Something about the way Joe talk had his alarm bells ringing. Actually, it was that plus the fact that his Dad rushed off so early in the morning and yet still insisted on a family discussion. And Joe _did _sound concerned...

"Joe…"

There were three soft popping sounds; two followed by a third. Frank swiveled around just in time to see the dark outlines of two hands each holding a gun. At the same time he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his right arm that was rapidly growing numb. He could see a small tranquilizer dart embedded in his arm. By then, he was already falling towards the hard floor. The glass pitcher of milk landed on the linoleum floor with a crash, littering the floor with milk and shards of broken glass. He knew his Mom was hit too. From the corner of his eye, he saw Joe slipping off the chair towards the ground. And when he landed face down on the floor with a loud bang and yet felt nothing, he knew how effective whatever paralyzing drug that was used on them was. Even his vocal cords were paralyzed.

A short while later, he was lifted up and shoved onto the dining table. From there, he could see his Mom slumped on another chair with her head supported by the wall behind her. She was bleeding, no doubt from the broken glass on the floor. His brother was propped on another chair right next to him, his head held up by a hand that was gripping tightly to his hair.

"Good morning Joseph. Do you know who I am?" The voice was low and surprisingly… friendly.

Frank could only see the graying hair and a muscular back from his position. But Joe's eyes were spitting defiance; it was clear Joe knew who his assailant was.

The man with graying hair laughed delightfully. "Oh dear, I see your father told you, but not your brother or mother…"

Another figure moved into his line of sight. This one looked in his mid twenties; Frank noted that the second and younger assailant had the exact same haircut as him. When that young man started to remove his clothes, Frank knew how those two were planning their escape.

"Let me introduce myself. My name is Andrew Kempton, and this is my son, William. We are here today to collect an old debt," Andrew introduced himself with flair while patting Joe lightly on the head like a pet dog. "I am telling you this, Frank, so you can tell your father not to worry, that I will make sure my replacement son will have the best possible care from me."

"I'm done Dad," William said as he finished dressing up and putting on that last bit of makeup.

"Well done, son," Andrew complimented.

Frank noted with a sinking feeling that William could easily pass for him from a distance. None of their neighbors were going to suspect when William drove their van out of the garage later.

"Now, Will, get Frank secured in the back of the van. I will be over with Joe after we settle some small issues here…"

Several minutes later, Frank was dump unceremoniously into the back of the van he shared with Joe. William then proceeded to tie and gag him with a roll of duct tape before reaching into his pocket for a small face towel and a little bottle. Frank recognized the sickly sweet scent of chloroform. And as those fumes dragged him into the darkness of sleep, he wondered exactly what issues Andrew was referring to that he wanted to settle with Joe.

-o-

The house felt unnaturally quiet by the time Fenton's car screeched to a stop on the front lawn. He raced towards his home, only to be stopped by Sam just before he could open the door.

"You're not going to be of any help if you just barged in and get yourself killed," Sam reminded in a soft firm whisper.

That got him back to his senses. He withdrew his handgun and gave Sam a quick nod before moving in. He could trust Sam to cover for him. The front door was close but not locked. His family should be having breakfast in the dining area, so that was where he was headed. It was unnaturally quiet.

Fenton could see light spilling from the dining room into the hallway. He sped up just a little and stilled. The chairs were overturned and there were bloodstains and broken glass all over the floor. And on that chair propped against the wall…

Fenton squeezed his eyes tightly shut before opening them again in vain hope that the scene would change. But reality was cruel.

Laura was seated on the chair, her face so serene but pale it appeared like she was just sleeping. But there was an ugly truth of a hole in her chest, no a hole through her heart and a pool of blood at her feet…

Tears flowed down his cheeks; his feet were glued to where he stood. Fenton knew he still had to find his sons, but somehow, something in him just shut down…


	5. Chapter 4

_Thanks MissFenway, Polaris, Mebabs, Tifa, and Franknjoe. Thanks for your kindly words, I know this is not my usual type of writing, so well... Mebabs: you did not misread, and Franknjoe: that part will become apparent later... I must apologize that this story is a little well... convoluted. I would like to think my more recent stories are in better shape. _

* * *

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Four**

-o-

I killed Mom.

My vision blurred. My eyes hurt. They were close to bursting. They already did. My cheeks were wet. I could not close my eyes.

Her eyes were still opened wide. I can see the dying light of desperation from those so familiar pale blue depths.

What am I going to tell Frank? How could I ever face Dad again?

Then the head lolled back. The lids closed.

That small red dot on her chest grew larger by the second.

I could still see those big and desperate pale blue eyes staring death in the face. I would never see them filled with love for me again.

Oh my god, I just killed my own mother…

I killed her.

-o-o-0-o-o-

Fenton Hardy stood frozen where he was. All around him, things were happening in slow motion. He watched all the action in total emotional detachment as if he was an unrelated and objective observer.

The sounds of the blaring sirens grew louder.

Sam Radley pushed past him and sprinted towards the dead victim who was slowly slipping from her seat and towards the floor. Sam caught her just on time.

There were voices coming from far away.

Sam eased the body to the floor and felt for a pulse. Why was Sam doing that? The victim was shot through the heart. She lost a lot of blood. She was clearly dead, if only for a few minutes.

Pitter patter footsteps growing louder and louder...

Sam's head turned towards him. It was not sympathy but relief and desperation that were reflected from those eyes. The mouth opened and moved. Words… impossible words poured out of that mouth…

"Fenton… Laura's not dead…still alive…Fenton…"

"Call the medics!" Someone yelled.

More people flooded into the room. Fenton's heart constricted painfully. He did not want to hope. His eyes flickered furiously.

"MOVE! DAMMIT!" Sam screamed at him. "Help me!"

He moved. In two giant leaps, he was there next to his wife. Yes, she was breathing if just barely. But how could that be?! He could still see Sam's hand pressing down heart on the spot where the heart should be… His mind a blank and his body was just carrying out whatever Sam told him to do.

But his heart started to hope. _Laura's still alive. She's not dead yet. She's still breathing... _

"You got to keep on fighting, Laura! You can beat this. I know you can. You're special, and you know it. You already beat Kempton. No one got away from the Kemptons alive, but you did. That's how I know you can beat this…" he told her fiercely.

His wife was special, Fenton remembered now. She has _Situs Inversus_, also known as _Dextrocardia_. Laura was one in every 8,500 humans who was born with her lungs and heart mirrored. Her heart was located on the right side of her body instead of the left. That was the only reason why she had this fighting chance. None of Andrew Kempton's victims survived. He survived only because Andrew wanted him to. Marianna and Jonathan were murdered almost two years ago. He had no idea how Andrew Kempton found them. There was no concrete proof linking Andrew to those two murders, but Fenton knew it was him. Fenton had no doubt now that Andrew would return for him and Laura. After Andrew finished with whatever he had in mind for Frank and Joe. That meant that Fenton had to find his sons first.

"Yours boys need you… I need you…" Fenton continued talking to his wife as if she could hear him.

The paramedics arrived and took over. He hovered over them, and followed them all the way to the ambulance.

"I have the same blood type with Laura," Sam was saying to the paramedics.

Fenton stood aside and watched the paramedics load his wife onto the ambulance. He took a deep breath. He wiped away his tears. There was nothing more he could do for his wife but to wait. He could not even give her his blood. But Sam could. Furthermore, his sons needed him. Both Frank and Joe were still in mortal danger. He looked at his pale wife again; he did not want her to be alone. Fenton took another deep breath, and make that painful but necessary decision. He had to get his sons back before it was too late. He turned to his best friend and partner.

"Can you stay with Laura? I don't want her to be alone," Fenton requested.

Sam hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. He could ask his wife to bring his laptop to the hospital. There was other research he could do to help. Fenton on the other hand needed to be out there searching and burning off his fears. Sam understood that.

"I will keep you updated. Just find Frank and Joe," he said as the ambulance doors closed and raced off to Bayport Memorial Emergency Department.

Fenton watched till the ambulance disappeared round the corner. Then he approached Bayport Police Chief Ezra Collig, who was currently shouting orders and instructions over the police radio. The crime labs people had just arrived and were making their way into his home.

"Whoever did this have a twenty minute head-start," Ezra briefed him. "Mrs. Gardner who lived across the street said Frank drove pass and waved to her like he did every morning about twenty minutes ago."

Fenton fought to keep emotions under control. Twenty minutes was a long time.

"I've send out APBs for both Andrew and William Kempton. I have alerted the staff at the airport, trains and bus terminals to be on the lookout. I have men checking out the marina. I have also ordered my men to set up road blocks on all known roads heading out of Bayport," Ezra continued in a brisk and business-like tone; he knew sympathy was the last thing Fenton needed at the moment. "All the conventional escape routes are covered. We just have to figure out the unconventional ones…"

"You have no proof yet that it was the Kemptons," Fenton told his friend.

Ordering road blocks without proper justification just before peak hour traffic was after all bureaucratic suicide.

Ezra simply looked back at him and shrugged casually. "I have three dead bodies, one critically injured victim and two missing teenagers. That is more than enough proof that a vicious killer is on a rampage. There is enough circumstantial evidence well beyond reasonable doubt to suspect Andrew Kempton."

Fenton nodded gratefully. He found it difficult to speak. Ezra was after all putting his career on the line for his sons.

"Sir!" Someone else was yelling.

A young officer was running towards them.

"What's up Officer Riley?" Chief Collig asked.

"We've found the boys' van, sir!" Con Riley panted out. "It's in the private parking lot behind Marcy's Arcade and Bobo's Burger Bar."

-o-

Twenty minutes away, in a little house at the end of a quiet lane, Andrew Kempton was busy working. He just finished padding up the inside of a washing machine which he dismantled yesterday. It was now roomy, comfy, and empty. But not for long, Andrew thought with more than a hint of excitement. The faint sounds of police sirens caught his attention, he laughed as those sirens faded away. They would never guess how close the man they were hunting actually was.

Andrew returned his attention to the two young men sleeping a drugged sleep on a large sheet of tarpaulin on the floor. For a moment, he was tempted to take them both. But he had survived long enough to know the value of discipline. He approached the blond. Andrew wiped the remnants of those tears off the pale face of the young man. Even in sleep, the lines of grief were etched onto that young face. He smiled at the memory of the raw terror and emotional pain in those blue eyes. It was a most pleasurable experience, much more pleasurable than he ever remembered. He looked forward to many more such pleasurable moments that he was certain this young lad here would provide.

Andrew sighed. His desires would have to wait. First, he needed to package Joe Hardy for transport out of Bayport. He could have all the fun he wanted later. He stripped off the blood splattered clothes, carefully putting them to one side. Then he inserted a Foley catheter into the young lad's bladder via his urethra. Next, he inserted a needle into the left wrist. The drip he prepared would keep the young man asleep yet hydrated over the next twenty-four hours. Andrew carefully lowered Joe into the well-padded interior of that old washing machine, slipping the limbs into its respective foothold and aligning the tubes before attaching it to the needle embedded in the wrist. He slipped a gas mask over the face, making sure it fitted snuggly before turning on the oxygen supply. He wanted the lad alive after all. He closed the cover with a satisfied smile.

"I'm here, Dad."

"Come, helped me secure the package and we'll load it onto your rig," Andrew ordered his son.

In less than two minutes, the washing machine was packed in it carton, and loaded onto the back of the truck. Soon, it would be just one package amongst many other well-packaged white-goods.

"You know what to do," Andrew stated.

The smile on his son's face was a nasty one. Yes, William was his son through and through, Andrew thought with much pride.

"Yes," William nodded as he climbed into the driver's seat. "I'll be picking up my load from the warehouse, deliver the goods, and then we'll meet at the cabin in the Smokies in three days' time."

And there, the real fun would begin, both father and son smiled at each other in anticipation.

As the son drove away with the precious cargo, Andrew walked back to the basement. It was time to put into action the game plan to Fenton and his friends on a little wild goose chase.

"I see you're awake, Frank," Andrew called out soon after entering the basement. Foolish young man, Andrew thought, someone with a medical expertise like him could easily tell the difference between real and feigned unconsciousness.

A pair of angry brown eyes snapped at him.

Andrew glanced at his watch and felt a sense of anticipation rising. The lad woke up earlier than he expected. Therefore he had time for a little enjoyment of his own. Something that does not leave behind too much physical damage but could have lasting psychological impact…

-o-

It was a long queue at the road block leading up to the Freeway heading towards NYC. One could tell from the tension in the air that a lot of drivers were getting very frustrated and angry at the delay. A number of them were already late for work.

"Hey Bob! Time for your next run already?"

William Kempton looked down and flashed a friendly and relieved smile at the young police officer who lived just several houses down the road from where he stayed over in Bayport over the last two years he had been driving long-haul rigs between cities. "Carl! What's happening here?"

He, as Bob Downe, had got to know Officer Carl and a number of his young friends rather well. He even joined some of the cops on the occasional Friday night out at the local bowl. It was amazing how much a set of cheek pads and a pair of contacts could do to one's appearance.

"Some serial went on a rampage this morning. Killed a number of people and kidnapped two kids," Officer Carl answered with an expression of mild distaste. "Hey, you don't mind opening up your truck for a quick check, do you? It's just an official procedure."

"Sure," William answered as he got off the driver's seat and proceeded to the back of his rig. "Anything to get me through faster… You know how tough the bosses are with our schedules and how much they take off our pay for being late…"

"Yeah – heard that from a number of truckies were booked for speeding because they were trying to make up for lost time…" Officer Carl commented as he waited for 'Bob' to open the back of the truck for him.

"Here you go!" William announced, and Officer Carl climbed onto the rig, flashing his torchlight at collection of neatly stacked packaged boxes in the rig.

"What's that?" Officer Carl shined his torch at one extra large roughly packaged box.

"That's Mrs. Hendrik's old washing machine. The one you and the guys helped cart over to my place two nights ago, remember?" William reminded. "I bought it second-hand for me Ma…"

"Ah…"

"Do you want to check it?"

"Nah, it's about the right size, and I can see you did put in some effort to package it nicely," Officer Carl declined the offer. "

"If you say so…"

"Just remember to keep a batch of your mom's home baked cookies for me. We can continue that game when you come back, Bob…"

"I won't be coming back for a few months," William announced a little regretfully. "That game would have to wait. Me ma's sick and I'm taking a coupa months off to spend some quality time with her."

"Don't worry about the cookies then," Officer Carl replied. "Do send your mother my regards. Tell her to take care! And you take care too!"

William nodded and waved goodbye as he drove off.

As soon as he dropped out of sight of that road block, his lips curved into an evil smile. Gone was the non-descript friendly and easy going man who drank beer with his buddies on a quiet Friday evening.

_That was just way too easy… _William smirked.

-o-

Andrew kept his eye on the young man who was desperately gasping for breath and straining ineffectively against his restraints. At the same time, he was slowly and meticulously working on his little trap for Fenton Hardy.

Waterboarding is such an effective way to torture someone. It caused very real physical pain as the lungs burned for its next dose of oxygen. It induced real fear as the victim experienced a very real drowning experience through forced suffocation and inhalation of water. And when properly done, it leaves no physical marks and leaves little physical damage on its victim.

He just had to keep a close watch to make sure he did not accidentally drown his victim.

One hour later, Andrew stood up and surveyed his handiwork. He smiled happily. Everything was going to work out as he planned. He glanced at his watch. Ah, it was time to set the bait.

He walked over to the corner where the tap was and turned it off. It was just a second too slow for Frank. The last few drops of water overloaded the little bucket and another batch of cold water went splashing down onto his hooded head. This time, the body merely jerked spasmodically as it instinctively fought for air through its water clogged nostrils and throat. The teen, Andrew knew, was totally exhausted by his experience. He swiftly removed the restraints and the teen rolled onto the floor. He ripped off the wet gag with one hand, and a well-placed punch forced the water out of the teen's stomach.

"Don't worry, I want you to live still," Andrew muttered as he dragged the unresisting but still breathing body to the center of the windowless basement and propped him onto the chair. "More importantly, I need you to be in reasonable physical shape several hours from now… one that is capable of putting up a good fight…"

After making sure that his prisoner was properly secured and held immobile, Andrew replaced the gag.

"Can't have you alerting our good neighbors out there, can we?" Andrew taunted.

Frank was clearly too tired to react. His body was close to shutting down, to give it the rest it desperately needed to recover.

"I won't be seeing you again, Frank. But at least you have some idea of what I had in mind for your kid brother. If you can remember later what happened, that is," Andrew enjoyed that sudden flash of anger and fear that appeared in those brown eyes.

"But really, you should be more concerned about what I had in mind for you and your father…" Andrew rattled on excitedly. "So rest now, while you can, my little fighter… It will take your father at least five hours to find you…"

He ran a finger down those muscular biceps. "Yes… I am sure you will be up to the task I planned for you… so don't let me down, Frank…"

Sadly for Andrew, the young man in question was already knocked out, worn out by his stint on waterboarding. Andrew sighed and dismantled the little contraption that he hastily created. He made a final round of checks, making sure everything was in position before he carefully made his way out of the basement and locking the heavy metal door from the outside.

Once he was a good distance from that house, he took out a pre-paid phone and made his first call to Fenton Hardy.

"Good morning Fenton. It's Andrew here. If you want Frank back alive, I suggest you tell your friends to remove all the road blocks. Frank has exactly six hours left to live. I will call you back exactly one hour from now to tell you how to find your older son, if and only if I'm safely out of Bayport with the son that you owed me."

He hung up. Let Fenton stew; too bad he could not be there to witness the father's desperation in person, Andrew sighed regretfully. And Fenton had no way of knowing that William was already more than an hour away from Bayport with Joe...

* * *

_Prank and Tukkie: There was a good reason why I never posted this story, you know. I was never quite happy with it and never quite knew how to fix it. That was why I never even kept the files. (sighs) Thanks for the birthday wishes. And thanks for that file, I skimmed through it and went: OMG I wrote that?? As for Heartland; I'm delaying posting next chapter until after the US elections, will email/pm notes to the few readers to explain. The Starwars saga... Jan 09 maybe? But I love the commentry, so I will definitely write it._


	6. Chapter 5

_Thanks so much again for the encouraging comments. I am really not feeling well, and would have to thank you guys properly later. Polaris: I am sure Fenton would love to kill me, so I made sure Andrew left lots of distractions. Red: Thanks. But I also have to apologize. I haven't been reading any HB fanfic for months already, much less comment on any stories. But it was really nice when I load this chapter to see so many nice comments. Thanks again. Franknjoe: I assure you won't like the 49 chapters version, unless you like silly cliffies every short chapter. I will have to read your update later, but I am sure I would love it. Soory folks, I really got to go back to rest. Still feeling pukey. If this chapter is not up to standard, pls be nice. Cheers, Nomi._

--o--o--

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Five**

-o-

It was five past two in the afternoon. A police car sped down the road, overtaking cars left and right, its siren blaring loudly. Officer Con Riley was at the wheel, his attention fully focused on the traffic around him. Fenton Hardy sat quietly in the passenger seat, his arms holding on tightly to the fourth and final box of shredded paper that was his clue to Frank's location. He just collected it from the playground next to Bayport Public Library.

On the surface, the respectable PI appeared calm. He had to; too many people were watching him. He refused to give either the police or the FBI any excuse to shove him into the sidelines. He would remain an active member of the investigative team. He would find Frank. And then he would find Joe. His sons would be with him when Laura finally awakened from her surgery. Everything would turn out well. Fenton refused to think of anything else.

But deeper down, Fenton knew that was not going to happen. Deeper down, he was afraid for Frank. His enemy planned everything down to the last detail. Andrew Kempton was playing a game with all of them. It was a cruel, diabolical game. It was an effective game from Andrew's perspective. That vicious killer, in a few simple moves, had tied up the limited resources of the police department and the FBI into a manhunt for Frank.

Andrew had drawn a huge map of Bayport and its surroundings, tore that map into pieces, and then fed those pieces through a document shredder. He divided those bits and pieces into four piles and put them into four boxes each with a note for the next pick-up point. He then paid four teenagers to deliver those boxes at hourly intervals in the various playgrounds around Bayport. All four boys were contacted two days ago. All four identified Andrew Kempton as the man who paid them fifty bucks to deliver the boxes to the man in the photograph that he provided at a specified time at the specified playground.

_Remember, Frank dies at four…_ the last note reminded.

'Damn you, Andrew,' Fenton cursed, fighting to keep his fears at bay.

More than a dozen officers had been working on piecing together the thousands of pieces of shredded paper since he got his hands on the first box. More were scouring the streets in vain hope that someone might see something interesting and useful. When he left the office to pick up this last box, they only had a small fraction of the puzzle pieced together. That few small sections they managed to fit together made little sense, much less yield any clues as to Frank's whereabouts.

Even deeper down, terror and guilt were gnawing away at his insides where his younger son, Joe was concerned. The heart to heart talk he had with Joe less than twenty-four hours ago came back to haunt him with a vengeance. _'I love you both equally,'_ he said to Joe. Yet he had chosen, knowing full well what Andrew was capable of, to personally search for Frank while letting Andrew get away with his younger son. He chose Frank over Joe, and that was the cold hard truth. He favored his elder son…

He swallowed a sob that threatened to burst out of his throat, forcing his mind back to Frank, knowing he had to, or he would lose both his sons. And maybe Laura too, when she found out what he did…

"Here are the last bits of the map!" he announced as soon as he entered the room with Officer Riley following close behind.

Then they were all busy working. Fenton focused on his task as he meticulously try out piece after piece to find the match. They would finish the map on time; the alternative was just not an option. The father gritted his teeth, swallowed his fear, and worked on.

Ninety minutes later, they were staring at the completed map on the table. There was no time for the self-congratulatory mood of a job well-done. They still had to figure out where the victim whom they were attempting to rescue was held.

For a moment, nothing on the map stood out, and Fenton wanted to just throw a chair or two out of sheer frustration. Instead, he forced back his emotions, and let his eyes roam over the map again, letting his mind appreciate the intricacy of various parts of that meticulously hand drawn map that was clearly not drawn to scale. There was the Bayport Public Library with its thick columns, and the Bayport Aquatic Centre with its ten meter diving-platform. Then Fenton saw… the house. He took another quick scan of the entire map just to be certain.

_Yes, that is the house,_ Fenton knew with utter certainty.

"Wayville Lane," Fenton declared decisively. "That house with the domed roof and that two pine trees up front. That's where Frank is."

"How can you be so certain?" One of the FBI agents asked.

"It was the only private residence that was drawn out in detail. All the others with that level of detail were public places. In fact those were where I collected all those boxes of clues from…" Fenton explained.

"I know that house!" one of the Bayport Police Officer suddenly blurted out. "That's 37 Wayville Lane. But no one lives there…"

'Which made it the obvious choice for Andrew,' Fenton realized, as did all the police officers and FBI agents.

They raced for their cars as Chief Collig and FBI agent-in-charge hollered instructions and orders over the police radio. It was twenty to four, and there was no time left for the usual briefing. Ten minutes later, they were gathered before 37 Wayville Lane. Fenton noted gratefully that Chief Collig had called for a bomb squad as well as a paramedic van. They had all agreed earlier that given the nature of the threat from Andrew, a bomb scenario was highly likely.

The house was quiet. No one answered the door. Fenton could see that the garden was overgrown with weeds. With ten minutes left, the police and FBI made the decision to break into the house even before getting the court orders. They were running out of time. They cleared the upper floors, the living room, and the kitchen. They cleared every part of the house. Except for that little wooden trap-door under the dining table that opened to a long, narrow, and dark stairway that led down and down and down… to a metal door at the bottom of the stairs.

And it was less than five minutes to four.

-o-

Frank Hardy woke up with more than a crick in his neck. All his muscles were screaming murder at him. He groaned in pain, but that sound was muffled by his gag. It was hardly surprising; he survived a long session of water-boarding. An involuntary shudder moved through him at that memory. He no longer believed in people holding out against torture; no normal person could. He would have said anything, confess to anything just to get his tormentor to stop. Unfortunately, he was not given that option. Andrew wanted nothing from him save his torment and terror. It was hell. And there was no way he was going to let his little brother go through what he did. No way…

But first, he needed to get out of here. That was easier said than done. He was bundled in a straitjacket and then was tied to a solid and heavy wooden chair. He could barely move. The air was dank and musty, so Frank surmised that he must be underground. He scanned his surroundings. He was the center-piece of a well-lit but windowless room. It did not take long for him to figure out what exactly Andrew had in mind for him. Horror filled him.

Then someone was trying to open the door.

He wanted to warn them not to open the door, but the gag muffled his screams. He fought harder, more desperately, to break his bonds. The ropes refused to budge.

It was almost with a sense of resignation that he turned his eyes to the gun aimed at his chest the moment he saw the door handle turning.

The door slammed opened and he saw two police officers rushed in, their guns held firmly before them. Both hit the ground at the very next instant as the sharp and loud report of a gun echoed through the room.

Frank felt a sharp fiery pain burn through his back which quickly turned numb. There was this long second of silence as he wondered what happened. He glanced downwards and saw his white straitjacket rapidly turning red. He looked up again and saw his father racing towards him, fingers fumbling desperately to cut the ropes and free him from his straitjacket. Suddenly and without warning, a storm of pain and terror rose from nowhere and overtook him, obliterating everything else.

And Frank Hardy was gone before he knew it.

-o-

"NO!" Fenton screamed the moment he heard the sharp report of a gun firing.

He saw the bright red of fresh blood spreading on Frank's chest. His heart missed a beat. No again, Fenton thought as he shoved the two police officers aside and raced towards his son.

The bullet could have miss the heart, the father reminded himself with forced optimism as he worked desperately to free Frank from the straitjacket so he could assess the extent of his son's injuries.

That was a mistake.

The moment he ripped the straitjacket off, Fenton saw that he had been had. The blood was from a burst bag, and it seemed that the gunshot was a blank. Then he saw that dart on the floor behind Frank.

Something hard and heavy hit him forcefully in his chest, sending him tumbling backwards across the room. Fenton looked up just on time to see Frank's feral eyes on him. His son was literally foaming at the mouth. There was a low primal and animalistic growl, and Frank pounced with his clawed fingers aiming for his neck…

-o-

From the top floor of an apartment unit several blocks away, Andrew Kempton watched the entire operation through his telescope. Too bad he could not personally witness what happened down in the basement he dug and built.

But he could see that the damage Frank wrought was extensive. There were several officers with bleeding faces and arms. It appeared that at least one officer had a broken leg. But most importantly, it was clear from the awkward angle of Fenton's arm that it was broken.

"Well done Frank! I knew you wouldn't let me down," Andrew gloated, his hand patting the formula in his pocket. His client would be most pleased with the effectiveness of his 'berserker concoction'.

Andrew's smile widened as he drank in the agonized expression on Fenton's face as four well-build FBI agents made their way out of the house dragging a clearly crazed and out of control Frank who had been re-strapped into that stained straitjacket.

"Ah Fenton, you should really be thanking me for providing you with the tools to restrain your son. Imagine what those FBI agents would do to Frank if they had to resort to knocking him out…. Oooh, good kick Frank," Andrew winced in mock sympathy as one of the FBI agents cut too much slack with one of Frank's legs and got a good kick in his groin. "Perhaps I should have included something for his legs…"

He chuckled as he watched the paramedics rushed forward to administer a sedative. He enjoyed their frustration when the sedative failed to take effect. They would try a muscle relaxant next, Andrew knew. He did his homework and knew every single step those paramedics were trained to take. He made sure that would not work either.

The paramedics were now shaking their head vigorously in response to something the agents were yelling about. He could almost hear them telling the agents and Fenton that they would risk rupturing Frank's heart if they were to give him any more medication. He could see that Frank was already starting to gasp for breath, but the young man was still fighting without regard to his own state of health. The multitude and quantity of drugs were fighting for supremacy and overloading the young man's system…

Andrew turned away from the telescope and started packing up. He had seen enough, and he had a train to catch. The paramedics and the paramedics would have to transfer Frank to the hospital the long hard way. What an enjoyable thought!

Of course Fenton would come after him for Joe. That was the point. He wanted the PI to. But he also wanted to be the one holding all the cards. With Laura dead, Frank hopefully psychologically crippled at least for a while, and Joe missing, Fenton should be feeling desperate. That was good, because desperate men made stupid mistakes.

'Poor Fenton,' Andrew mocked. 'You really should not have tangled with me. But I so love a challenge.'

He picked up his briefcase, exited the apartment and locked it. It was time to start working on his relationship with his newly adopted son. _Would Fenton know what he had in mind for his younger son,_ Andrew laughed silently all the way as he drove away from Bayport. There were no road blocks. Why should there be? They all believed he left Bayport six hours ago…

-o-

It was hard, but the father forced himself to do it. Fenton stood at the door to the well-padded cell, watching over his elder son for the last two hours through the tiny glass window. Frank was still strapped into a straitjacket. They also forcefully put a muzzle and a helmet onto Frank. He had no choice but to agree. A number of agents and paramedics were currently undergoing treatment for bite wounds. Frank fought like a cornered animal. In a sense, Fenton supposed he was. He could only be grateful that the police and agents had made every attempt to be gentle with his son despite the injuries that Frank inflicted on them.

There was another dull thud against the padded wall and the father winced. He hurts every single time Frank threw himself mindlessly against the padded wall. It hurts for him to see his level-headed and intellectual son reduced to this rabid animalistic state.

What on earth did Andrew give to Frank? The father raged helplessly.

A cocktail of unknown psychedelic drugs with chemical structures similar to those of the phenethylamine, desoxypipradrol and piperazine family, the forensic scientist told him. Home-made cocktail of designer drugs with strong components of hallucinogen, stimulants, and pain-inhibitors, the doctor explained in lay man terms, plus a host of other components that were yet to be identified. The only good news to Fenton was the fact that the half-hourly blood test showed that the concentration of those drugs in Frank's blood were declining steadily.

It was another hour before Frank caved in to exhaustion. That was also when the doctor said that Frank's system was almost clear. They transferred the unconscious youth from the padded cell to a private room. Given that no one had any idea as to the after-effects, the doctors had Frank securely strapped to the medical gurney for safety's sake. Fenton insisted on staying with Frank. Someone had to be there to explain to Frank why he was strapped down. That someone was preferably family. And he was the only family left who could do that.

Laura was recuperating in the ICU. Joe was still missing. A sharp pain stabbed his heart. Fenton knew that there was no way for him to get to Joe before Andrew started whatever he was planning. He was selfish; he knew it was going to hurt, and hurt real bad. But he still prayed fervently that Andrew meant to drag out Joe's suffering and not kill him. He rather had Joe back alive, and he would spend the rest of his life to help Joe recover if he had to.

'Just hang in there, Joe. Hang in there… I will find you, I swear I will…' the guilt-stricken father swore.

But who was he kidding? He had no idea where to start looking, and that was not even taking into consideration the fact that he was now sporting a broken right arm.

"I'm so sorry I failed to protect you," the father whispered guiltily to his elder son who was finally resting and sleeping. "But I know you can beat this. The doctors said your system's almost clear…"

Fenton reached out to stroke his son's pale face gently. "You have to, Frank. Because I need you, and Joe needs you too…"

His voice broke. How was he to explain to Frank and Laura when they wake up? He could not…

He did He had no choice. Joe was missing.

They were both mad at him, though only for a very short while. Then the anger was set aside as all efforts were poured into finding Joe.

-o-

Somewhere in the Smokies, William was quietly studying his father's notes as he prepared another little cocktail for his new little brother. So far, his new little brother was reacting as he should. And his father was right; Joseph's going to be a much hardier and better toy to play with than Jonathan. It would be another day before his father arrives. His father would be pleased with his work.

The alarm rang. He could not help that gleeful expression. It was fun time again.

-o-o-0-o-o-

I woke up to a maelstrom of pain and confusion, not to mention a parched throat. There was a bottle of water next to me. I drank thirstily. My throat felt better after that. I had no idea this was not the first time I woke up in this room and in this state of mind.

Where was I?

I was lying on a narrow hard surface in almost total darkness. There was a faint slit of light from the floor. That must be where the door was. I tried to sit up, but the attempt exhausted me so much so I sank back onto the narrow bunk I was lying in.

Why was I feeling so unnaturally weak and achy all over?

Was I sick?

If I was sick, then why weren't I in a hospital?

I tried to move again. This time, I felt the weight around my left ankle. Slowly I reached out to feel it. I was shackled my by left ankle to the wall. I was a prisoner.

Suddenly, I felt panic rising in me.

Who was I?

It took me a while to force back the rising panic. Then I remembered my name. It was Joe. Joe Hardy… I was glad I remembered, and I hung on to my identity tight as I could mentally. It was the only asset I had at the moment. Everything else was fuzzy to me. More terrifying was the fact that no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember details of my past. All I could get was some vague impressions that meant nothing…

Footsteps, there were footsteps heading my way. The door opened, and the lights came on. It was dim, a single bulb in the center of this little windowless room.

The person who stepped into the room for some reason appeared familiar. Where had I seen him before?

"I see you're awake, little brother," he said.

A vague memory flashed. I was having a great time playing with another person who looked sort of like the person standing before me right now. Then I knew I really had a brother. A big brother… and his name was Frank…

"Frank?"

Something did not feel right about me calling that person by that name. But he did look similar…

"Welcome home, little brother," the Frank apparition smirked. "Dad will be back tomorrow. And payback will start…"

Something in that tone and that voice chilled me. Frank did not speak like that. Not in that tone. Right? Again uncertainty hits me.

"No, you're not Frank. You can't be Frank…" I told myself over and over, forcing myself to ignore that Frank-apparition towering over me. "You are not my brother…"

"You can lie to yourself all you want, little brother," the Frank-apparition taunted. "But you cannot hide from the truth forever, Joe…"

"Frank loved me… my brother loves me… we got along very well…" As I said that, I knew somehow that was true.

"I did. Love you. Until you killed Mom. Tell me why I should love you after that?"

"I…"

I wanted to yell back that I would never kill my own mother. But suddenly, I felt uncertain. I killed Mom… Did I? Did I? But why? Why did I do that? Why?

"You killed Mom, little brother," 'Frank' said in a cold angry tone. 'Shot her through her heart.'

A vague memory of me holding a gun assailed me. My heart beat harder, faster. I suddenly saw this pair of desperate pale blue eyes staring at me. I shook my head vigorously. No, that could not be true. Why would I kill my own mother? I would not, would I? But if I did, my brother would rightfully hate me. So would my Dad… I desperately tried to rack my brains for confirmation. But my brains simply refused to cooperate.

"And now you have to pay…"

I never saw the fist coming. It hit hard in my guts. I doubled over in agony. I deserved it, my big brother kept telling me.

Was that right? Did I deserve this for killing Mom?

Still the pain was unbearable. I think he bruised my ribs. I begged for Frank to stop. He did not. I knew those blows. They were all well-placed for maximum pain, not damage. Frank was a black belt Karate. He would know what he was doing.

"If I really killed Mom, then hand me over to the police…"

"That would be far too easy on you, little brother," 'Frank' laughed as he gave me a final kick. "This is by far a better and fun way…"

And then he left, still laughing.

I felt betrayed.

That could not be right. Something deep within me was crying out that Frank would never hurt me.

Still the betrayal cuts deep. It cuts very deep indeed…


	7. Chapter 6

_Dear Tukkie:Yes I got all your emails, but have little energy to respond. My very bad flu and cough degenerated into bronchitis, which is not at all a good thing to have when you're pregnant. With no access to childcare over here and a crazy boy running amok in the house, I was really living half zombiefied for the last two months. Last week, my chest specialist told me I cracked my ribs... so I was really not in any shape to respond, much less write. But here's the next chap... hopefully the next email I get from you would be a get-well soon e-card?_

_Prank: you know I rarely say 'no' to you. But this time, let me think about it, eh?_

_franknjoe: if you have finally come back down to earth... THANK YOU for that wonderful wonderful parody. I've sent a response, if it sounded weird, just blame it on the medication I'm on, please._

_Red Hardy: Thanks. I really love Happy Birthday. I admit I am glad I did not see yours and franknjoe's comments earlier because then I would be compelled to write, which could be detrimental to my health._

_Tifa: thanks for sharing your experience re- Brotherhood._

_Chromde, Polaris, Tifa, nightwatcher, Ms Fenway: you have no idea how happy I was to see your comments as I loaded up this chapter. Thanks very much. I can only apologise for making you wait so long for this update. _

* * *

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Six**

-o-

On a pristine white bed in a little private psychiatric ward, one patient was tossing and turning fitfully, his tired mind and body desperate for the rest that his over-active mind refused to give him. He dreamt he went psycho and was on a killing rampage, maiming slaughtering innocents, family and friends, laughing at their screams of terror and agony. He dreamt that his little brother was being sliced and diced alive while he watched and that there was nothing he could do to help…

Frank Hardy woke up in cold sweat, his heart pounding, his brother's screams still ringing in his ears.

"Just a nightmare… not real," he muttered over and over, just to reassure himself. "Joe is still alive. All I have to do is to get well, and then help Dad find him."

As usual, that was easier said than done.

First, there were the unexpected aftereffects of whatever drugs Andrew used to turn him into a frenzied maniac. Even after his blood test showed that his system was clear, he was still susceptible to hallucinatory attacks that sent him into a violent rage. He shuddered at those vague memories of himself going on an uncontrolled rampage around the hospital seeing everything through a red haze. That was how he ended up in this private psychiatric ward under constant observation; for his safety, and that of the hospital staff and other patients.

He had not even had the opportunity to see his mother, and instead had to rely on second hand reports from his father, Sam, the doctors and the nurses. At least his mother was alive, stable, and recovering, even if she was still in the ICU.

But he had not had any attacks for three days! Frank thought optimistically as he allowed himself to believe his system might finally be clearing everything after all. Then he gnashed his teeth in frustration as the doctors insisted on keeping him for several more days 'for further observation'.

He wanted to be out there working on the case and searching for his brother. His father, whose right arm was broken, by him, clearly needed all the help he could get. Most importantly, he, Frank Hardy, needed to be out there working and doing something before… before…

His fingers reached desperately for the files he blackmailed from his father. _Give me something to work on, something to do, and I will cooperate with the doctors and the psychiatrist_, he bargained with his Dad. His father agreed and passed him a copy of everything he had on the Kemptons, plus daily updates from the investigative team.

Frank calmed down the moment he got his hand on the first file. He could still work on the case in his own way on his own time, and he already had a few questions for his father and for Sam. Leaning back onto his bed, he stared out of the window into the inky darkness. Morning was clearly still a long way off.

He recalled how furious he was when Dad told him what happened. His father had no right keeping something so crucial to Joe's safety from him was his initial reaction. Then he would have been more alert and more careful. He would be watching out for his brother, and the Kemptons would not have been able to surprise them so easily… he ranted on and on angrily, ignoring his father's pale guilt-stricken face.

_And in your over-zealous need to protect Joe, plus your fears for him, you will end up pushing your brother away from you_, Sam's firm voice cut cleanly across the room, silencing his rants.

Sam Radley was right. For the first time, Frank saw exactly what happened between his father and Joe over the last four years. Then he saw what he and Mom had that his father did not. Finally, he saw the guilt and the pain that his father strove to hide.

"Sorry, Dad… and thanks…"

There was this uncomfortable moment between all three of them. And then they all got straight down to work. After all, the only thing that really mattered was finding Joe and getting him back well and alive.

"Just hang on, bro… we'll find you… promise…" Frank vowed as he drifted off into a restless sleep.

Suddenly, he was drowning again.

There were invisible hands holding him down dragging him deeper and deeper into the freezing darkness. His lungs were crying out for oxygen, but he kept his mouth firmly shut, knowing intellectually what would happened if he were to take in that first deadly mouthful of salty seawater. Drowning was after all a most horrible way to die. It did not take long for that instinctive need to survive to take over. His mouth opened on its own accord, he choked, his lungs filled, his body spasm painfully as it failed to get the oxygen it craves.

Frank's eyes snapped opened for the third time that night and he sat up so quickly he was assaulted by a sickening sense of vertigo. He was panting and his mouth was opened in a silent scream, choking on mouthfuls of non-existent water. He almost threw up.

But the room was no longer dark. The soft beams of sunshine streaming in from the windows bathe his room in a warm golden light.

It was the start of a new day.

It was the start of the thirteenth day since Joe was taken by that psycho.

He was found at the end of the first day. He was knocked out for two days straight after that. He spent the next three days trying to remember who he was and what happened. The following four days sped by as he lived in the shadow of unpredictable hallucinatory attacks and recovering from all those berserker romps. It was only in the last three days…

Frank threw the bedcovers off him in disgust as he made his way to the bathroom. He could no longer sleep, no matter how tired he was. He dreaded to think of what state his younger brother might be in by now. Joe, who was in a much more vulnerable psychological state than he, who was just recovering from Iola's death…

He stopped just before the shower stall. For a long few minutes, he stood and glared at the little innocent looking shower-head that was positioned a mere few inches above his up-raised face. He fought a mental battle against the panic attack he felt was hovering just at the back of his mind. His heart was pounding wildly, his breath deepened.

And Frank knew he had one Andrew Kempton to thank for his current phobia of water landing on his head. Andrew Kempton, the man with an axe to grind with his father, who attempted to kill his mother, and took his brother from him.

_The man that made him drown for over an hour without killing him…_

For the last three days, he forced himself to take multiple showers, working hard to overcome this phobia that Kempton gifted to him. He was managing well. His psychiatrist, whom he was seeing every other day for the moment, was impressed by his progress over the last ten days, saying that some known victims of water boarding were susceptible to panic attacks when the unexpected raindrop landed on their head as long as eleven years after the event. Frank also knew the 'keyword' was 'unexpected'. The 'unexpected' was what led to unforeseen circumstances that could be fatal.

'Lasting psychological impact' was what Andrew Kempton promised him.

'No way' was his gritty response.

He would not allow someone like Andrew to leave that kind of an impact over his life. He would overcome that phobia. He would get his friends to help by pouring water over him without warning after he gets out of this little medical prison. He would find his brother. Together they could and would recover from anything Andrew throws at them.

Today, he would take his shower without a nurse on standby. Then, he would start working on convincing his psychiatrist he was fit to go home.

Frank Hardy took several deep breaths, gritted his teeth, reached for the tap, and turned on the cold water.

-o-o-0-o-o-

"He's not my father… he's not my father… he cannot be my father…"

I muttered over and over as I rocked back and forth on my little hard and narrow bunk with my arms tightly wrapped around my bended knees.

"And Frank cannot be my brother… he cannot be… he's not my brother…"

_Fathers and brothers do not keep their sons and siblings locked up half starved and shackled to a cold hard bunk in some windowless room, do they?_ I asked myself.

"They're not my father and brother…" I continued muttering out loud; first because I needed to believe in it, and second the sound of my voice broke the awful silence and bought me a small measure of relief from the unreasonable sense of terror stalking me.

Something moved in the shadows and I flinched violently, barely managing to stifle a scream by biting down hard on my lips. Tears flowed instead, whether from the pain from my bleeding lips or from sheer fear, I could not tell. I did not want to be able to tell. All my life, I never thought myself a coward. I did not understand this inexplicable, unadulterated fear I am currently feeling. Something was just not right.

The heavy wooden door to my cell creaked opened. I trembled. The dim lights came on, a bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. But it was bright enough to blind me for the moment. And then they, they were there before me.

I cringed almost instinctively. But I refused to be beaten. I fought against that fear that rose from nowhere. I fought hard. Nevertheless, a tiny whimper escaped my throat. They laughed. I hated them. Even more so, I hated myself for being so scared and so weak.

"Good morning, son…" The man who claimed to be my father greeted with a sinister smile. "Guess what… its feeding time again…"

I hated these 'feeding times'. Frank was approaching with that much hated feeding tube. I hated that knowing smiles plastered on both their faces. It was clear to me that they both enjoyed the torment they were inflicting.

"Say Ah…," Frank said.

I opened my mouth, the memories of my recent experiences when I fought against the insertion of that feeding tube still fresh in my mind. I was in no shape to go through another one of those harrowing experiences. It was strange that I could remember all the torment of my last few days, but nothing else. Then that thought fled as I had to deal with the pain of the tube being shoved roughly down my throat that was still sore and raw from recent transgressions. That was followed by the most uncomfortable sensation as the liquid food was dump straight into my stomach. After the tube was roughly withdrawn, I had to battle the nausea. Again, I was too well aware of what would happen if I actually did throw up. I would not give them more reasons to torture me than they already have. Not that they needed any reason to…

The other reason why I fought to keep that meager nourishment down was the fact that I still harbored hope of escape despite my weakened state. I still dream of being free…

Soon, the nausea faded. The food had settled in my stomach. I supposed I must have looked less sickly, for that man who claimed to be my Dad spoke.

"Did you enjoy your meal, son?"

As if I could taste whatever it was he gave me! I was suddenly angry. From that anger, I drew strength. I still refused to believe he was my father.

"You're… not… my father," I stuttered just a little, but I was proud of the fact that I actually say that out loud.

Soft laughter greeted my little act of defiance. By then, my eyes got used to the light. I looked up into a pair of brown eyes that should have felt familiar if he was really my father. Then, quite unexpectedly, a quick memory flashed, incomplete, but enough. Or so I thought.

"My father is an investigator… he helps people…"

"I am an investigator. And my investigations helped lots of people. A lot more than you know, son…" There was mock sympathy in that voice. "Don't you remember?"

"No… You're lying…"

He had to be! My father's a good man. He helps people. I would know… wouldn't I?

"How can you be certain I was the one lying and not you? What do you remember of your past?" The voice I was starting to hate continued, mocking and amused. "You cannot keep lying to yourself, son. You cannot hide from your deeds forever…"

What could I remember from my past? Just a few blurry moving images that tittered teasingly at the fringes of my mind before flitting away again…

"You did something to me…" I decided to go on the offensive, using whatever righteous anger I could conjure to counter the unreasonable fear assailing me. "You made me forget…"

"What make you so certain it wasn't you who chose to forget?" The voice was so confident I faltered. "You want to forget, because of what you did…"

I chose to forget, because of what I did? What did I do? The questions kept coming, and I had no answers. The fear returned and I could not help another soft whimper...

"You killed your mother, remember?"

_I did?_

"No…" My voice was the merest whisper; I was starting to feel sick to my stomach.

"So you want proof?"

For some reason, the prospect of proof terrified me. I did not answer. The smirk on that man who claimed to be my father filled me with dread. I had a really bad feeling he was telling the truth. Still I refused to believe that I was a killer, much less one that killed my own mother.

_He is lying. He must be lying. He must be!_

"Frank! Your little brother wants proof of what he did!" My Dad guffawed. "Show him!"

_Frank… _My heart constricted painfully. The big brother I have who should be looking out for me. Instead, he gave me a series of good pounding. The bruises on my arms and torso were still visible. And now I recalled Frank said he was punishing me for killing Mom…

"You know I have hidden cameras all over because of my profession as an investigator. I keep records of everything, son, and here's what one of the cameras recorded…"

"No…" But even my denial was unconvincing to me this time.

Frank carted over the little TV that was connected to a video player. He inserted a tape and started the video playing. My eyes were glued to the TV screen. I watched my mother's last desperate moments before her head lolled back and her eyes closed - forever. My eyes started to sting. Tears filled my eyes that refused to flow. My vision blurred. Yes, I remembered. I could still feel the weight and the warmth of that newly fired gun in my hand.

I killed her.

_Why?_ A tiny voice deep within me asked. _Why did I kill her?_ Yet, did reasons matter? I killed her. Murder was murder no matter the reasons…

"You never had the guts to face up to what you did," my 'Dad' was saying most cruelly. "You are a disappointment. Always is. Despite all my time and effort training you, you are never a fraction of what Frank is…"

The hurt I felt was real as it was familiar. Something about that rang true. There was a sense of familiarity to the thought of me trying hard, very hard to win my Dad's approval. I never was good enough. My big brother was everything that I was not. I looked up again at the sight of my big brother and father standing side by side. Both of them had dark brown hair and brown eyes. They even looked alike.

_I was never part of them, was I?_

"… weak… stupid… just like your mother…"

_Oh Mom…_ I sobbed. _I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…_

Yet something in those last few words from Dad actually soothed me a little. I was like Mom. I am not like… them. Then the grief hits. I killed her. I did not know how or why. But I knew I was responsible for her death.

Heart wrenching sobs filled the tiny little cell as grief overtook terror. Within minutes, I was drenched by my own hot scalding tears. There was pain and there was pain. This was the pain of death and of loss, final and unredeemable. I curled into a tight little ball, a worthless physical defensive act against the onslaught of emotional agony.

A bony hand held me firmly and painfully by my chin, re-directing my eyes back towards the TV screen.

"You killed your mother…" A sibilant voice hissed.

The pain of grief returned two-fold at that reminder.

"Because we made you kill her… I made you kill her… forced you to pull the trigger…"

Another image flashed in my mind. It was a memory. I could see Dad's hands around mine. It was his hand that forced my finger to press the trigger. _'Say goodbye to your mother, Joe. Kill her for me, son…'_

"And I made you kill her… so that you will now truly belong to us… with us… You will no longer defy us for her sake…" Then the cold hard voice turned casual, even friendly as he continued. "And it's all your fault… if you did as you were told, we would never need to kill her…"

What did I do? Or what did I not do? I don't know, I don't know. But did it matter? It was my hand on the gun, my fingerprints on the trigger. And Mom's dead because I failed in some way to please Dad. I was still responsible for her death. I killed her…

Something else struck me, and I turned to Frank. "You never loved Mom… You lied… You were just beating me up for fun…"

"She's weak… you're just like her… it was fun watching you think that I really cared about her…" Frank answered with careless shrug and a smirk on his face. "But you know you have no one but yourself to blame for her death… you have always known that…"

"I hate you…" I threw every bit of hatred I felt into those three words.

They laughed.

_Yes, I hate them… I hate them… as much as I hated myself… _

"That's very good Joe. Hate us all you want. But in the end, you will do what we want you to do… You know that, don't you, son? Of course you do… you already killed your own mother because we wanted you to…"

My eyes started to tear again. That scene where she died played itself over and over in my mind. My father and brother were psychos. They made me kill her just because I failed to do something they wanted. I killed her simply by disobeying them…

"Another warning, my son… if you ever remember anyone else from your past… you will condemn them to a fate worse than death…"

There were screams of pain and terror from the TV. On the screen were images of people in their dying throes. Those were my father's and brother's past victims, I realized rather belatedly. I felt sick all over again.

"Is that the fate you want for your friends?"

_No… no way… no… _I shook my head violently.

My Dad's fingers took a firm hold on my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes before continuing with his threats in a cold hard voice. "You know I have the means to make you tell me the truth… drugs that you cannot resist, with side-effects you never want to experience… So don't even think of lying to me…"

My tears were now flowing freely. I was terrified for my friends, even though I could not remember who they were at the moment.

"Poor, poor, little Joe…"

The hand that wiped away my tears was gentle, almost loving. Someone sat down next to me. A gentle hand was rubbing my back comfortingly. I shrank away from it as much as I yearned for comfort.

"You belong to us now… "

I shivered as a sliver of fear raced up my spine.

"I am your father. My name is Fenton. Now, call me 'Dad'."

I saw the dark brown hair and brown eyes. The face was fuzzy. I could not get a clear grasp of the features. If I weren't drugged up to my eyeballs, I would have noted the intent.

"Dad…" I complied only because the tone was sinister, and the threat to my friends whom I could not remember was still fresh in my mind.

"Good. And who is that?"

Dark brown hair and brown eyes, with similar and much younger features, clearly father and son…

"Frank… my big brother…" I gave the answer I knew Dad wanted to hear.

"Very good… You are learning… and you will learn everything that we want you to learn… won't you?"

I hated myself for my cowardice as I nodded again, too far gone in my fears to think of defying them at the moment.

"You will do what we want you to do… And you will die only when we are ready to let you die…"

At least they planned to kill me eventually.


	8. Chapter 7

_Thanks Polaris, Ms Fenway, Chromde, Nightwatcher, and Amal for leaving such an encouraging line. Hope you like this chapter too._

_Still in pain, so shall not linger. Was surprised I actually got this out so quickly (I'm sure its slow by some standards). Again, if there's exceptionally high grammar errors or unnecessary words, please be nice until I do get better and can focus better. _

_And oh... thanks nightwatcher and Ms Fenway for the well-wishes and prayers! Thanks very much!  
_

* * *

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Seven**

-o-

Breakfast was always a happy time for the Hardy household because it heralded the start of a brand new day. That was the extent of Laura's influence and optimism on the family. Never go to bed angry, and always start the day happy with a hearty hot breakfast.

This morning, breakfast was cold and quiet, as it had been for the last few weeks. The father and son, who both looked so much alike, sat opposite each other, staring down at their breakfast plates, each lost in their own guilt and fears. The grandfather clock from the living room struck eight, yet the two remain seated, barely moving, at the dining table.

Laura, Fenton sighed, was still in the hospital recovering from a near fatal point blank shot. But she was doing well, and the doctors said she could come home as early as next week. He missed her terribly. And this house certainly missed her motherly and womanly touch. He needed her too, as do Frank. As for Joe… Joe…

"You should eat something, Frank" Fenton said sternly to his elder son, if only to distract himself from his own bleak thoughts and fears.

Frank continued pushing his toast from one side of the plate to the other, his face totally expressionless. Fenton knew that Frank was taking Joe's abduction very hard. His sons were very close and were rarely apart from each other for long periods. Still one got to eat. It did not escape the father's eye that Frank had lost weight.

"We can hop over to Flap's for a proper Big Breakfast," Fenton tried again with false brightness.

After all his infamous bake beans on toast breakfast could hardly be considered appetizing. But Fenton knew the dismal quality of his cooking had nothing to do with Frank's lack of appetite, or that of his own.

"Frank…" the father pleaded as his son remained quiet.

"Six weeks." The voice was soft and haunted.

"I know." Fenton answered simply.

"That sadist has Joe for six weeks, Dad."

Fenton's heart constricted. The truth behind that statement was terrifying in its simplicity. Both he and Frank knew precisely what Andrew Kempton was capable of. Both experienced Kempton's finesse and expertise firsthand. For the first time in years, he knew not what to say to his son to ease his fears.

"What am I missing? What can't I remember?" Frank suddenly blurted out, his fist slamming so hard onto the table that the plates jumped.

"Fra…" Fenton began, only to stop at the intensity of guilt and pain in Frank's eyes.

"Nothing, son. You are not missing anything," he said in a firm tone instead. "Andrew planned everything to down to the last detail."

That was true. Andrew Kempton and his son planned the distraction, the abduction, and the getaway, and executed everything step by step flawlessly. They left behind plenty of evidence as to who they were, from operational M.O. to fingerprints to DNA evidence on the victims' bodies. But there was not a single clue as to where they might be headed next from the moment the boys' van was abandoned in the private parking lot behind Marcy's Arcade and Bobo's Burger Bar. The extensive leg work questioning everybody and anybody who might have even the smallest chance of witnessing anything out of the norm yielded no results. They were now resorting to scanning through the hundreds and thousands of traffic violations photographs that was just delivered to them from the traffic department.

The only bright spot, if that could be counted as a bright spot at all, was the fact that the criminal profiler believed that Andrew Kempton had a bigger plan in mind, and would not kill Joe just yet. What that plan was, was unfortunately up to anyone's guess, Fenton admitted glumly.

"Dad…"

The self-loathing in his son's voice was so sharp, he almost cried. He wanted to tell Frank that it was not his fault that there were still parts of those few harrowing hours that he could not remember. Furthermore, Fenton was certain Andrew would not tell Frank where he was taking Joe or what he was planning to do next anyway…

"Andrew said he would enjoy watching the havoc I would cause… that when I remember I would know where to look next if I'm smart enough…"

The father's heart missed a beat and his mouth popped opened. He could not believe Kempton would have the audacity to actually leave a clue with Frank. Then he saw Frank's guilt-stricken face and realized that would be something Andrew Kempton would do, precisely because of the impact it would leave on his elder son.

"He TOLD me he would be watching… he did not leave Bayport when he told the FBI and you he did. The timeline's all wrong…"

Fenton recalled the criminal profiler saying that she thought someone like Kempton would want to at least watch part of Frank's torment. They searched the entire house for hidden cameras and came up with nothing. 37 Wayville Lane was clean. And if the timeline's all wrong, they would have to rethink the entire investigation over. But at least they now have something else to work on. Still…

"How?" Fenton wondered out loud. How was Andrew watching? And how were they going to find out?

Frank was already on the move, his breakfast forgotten. "I think I know, but we need to go now, while the morning sun's still strong…"

Soon they were back at 37 Wayville Lane. Fenton could see Frank turning a shade paler. He placed his hand firmly and supportively on Frank's shoulder.

_I understand_, he said to his elder son with his eyes.

Frank returned a grim nod before getting out of the van and started strolling up and down the lane, staring into the distance. It took Fenton a while to figure out what his son was doing. There were a number of tall high-rise buildings to the west. And in the strong glare of the morning sun rising in the east, he soon saw what Frank was looking for, that blinding glint of sunlight reflected off a telescopic lens.

The father and son exchanged a grim glance. They found what they were looking for.

It took them several hours to pin down the exact unit in the exact building, and then track down the owner of Apartment Unit 16 E of Atlantic Views, a private residential high-rise that overlooks the Great South Bay. That unit was apparently being leased to a Mr. Edwin for eighteen months until the end of the year with all rent paid in advance in cash.

Fenton's heart sank. The Kemptons had been around Bayport that long? No wonder no body saw anything out of the ordinary. Eighteen months in today's context would literally make them 'locals' and 'fellow Bayporters'.

The father and son proceeded with the paperwork for the courts to issue a search warrant for the premises. Fenton leaned on a few contacts to help speed up the procedure. It was refused with the judge citing insufficient evidence and cause for concern.

Frank glared furiously at the verdict; he wanted to break into the apartment, but Fenton put a stop to it.

"I have a few more contacts I can call on," the father assured his son. "We need to do everything by the book. You really do not want to get on the bad side of the law enforcement establishment at this point in time. We're going to need their help later…"

And then it was evening.

"Tomorrow," Fenton promised, and Frank relented most grudgingly.

They were having Chinese takeaway for dinner when the doorbell rang. It was Tommy, one of Joe's biker friends from the East Side, the one who just started his first year at the Police Academy. He declined Fenton's invitation into the house.

"I heard about the apartment and that the court refused the search warrant from the PA grapevine. The gang drew lots to see who would… you know…," Tommy announced in a gruff voice, his boots tracing circular patterns on the floor.

"… to break in to that apartment?" Fenton finished off for Tommy in an incredulous tone.

Tommy shrugged uneasily looking rather like a mouse despite his muscular build and his normally intimidating black leather biker's jacket. "Joe's a friend and a darn good one too. Matt's breaking in right now… Don't worry he know what to do to create enough attention to bring in the police but will not destroy any potential evidence you might need… But I was hoping you know… that maybe you can… you know… ask your friends to sort of ignore certain evidence if… if you know… in case Matt's a little careless…"

"I will admit to the break-in if it comes down to that," Frank cuts in without hesitation; that so-called crime was after all something he intended to carry out on his own anyway. "And thanks…"

Tommy observed Frank for a moment before returning a little smile. "We never liked you. Thought you were a mite arrogant and aloof. But now I can see why Joe literally worship the ground you walked on."

"Thanks Tommy, for telling me…" Fenton was touched by the fact that those bikers were willing to risk a criminal record for his son. He was grateful, but he could not condone such an action either. "I'll see what I can do. But… tell your friends: Don't ever do something stupid like that again." Then the father added when he found himself a recipient of two hostile glares from Frank and Tommy. "Joe would not want you to risk that for him…"

The father had to hide a smile at Frank's low growl of disagreement and Tommy's clearly irritable mutter about the obvious fact Joe would have stage the break-in himself if Frank was missing. Both of them kids did not have to know that he was planning to break-in himself if his contacts failed to come through tomorrow.

By midnight, Chief Ezra Collig had a professional forensic team processing the apartment. Frank was right. There was a high-powered telescope aimed squarely on 37 Wayville Lane. Kempton's prints were all over the house – that psycho did not bother to disguise his presence. And then a grim-faced Ezra Collig passed him an A4-sized manila envelop that was addressed to him.

He opened it.

Frank read the note and blanched.

Fenton just did not want to analyze his own reaction.

The note read:

_So Fenton, how long did it take you to find this place? Do not worry; you will get to see your precious little Joseph again, but only when I am ready to let you. The question is: will he still acknowledge you as his father? Perhaps the more relevant question is: by that time, will you still want to acknowledge Joseph as your son?_

_-o-_

Andrew Kempton strode down the stairs towards that dark and dank basement room with a plate filled with fries and a steak sandwich and a can of coke. His new son had performed well yesterday, and would be getting his promised gourmet meal. More importantly, there were reasons why he needed to make sure Joseph looked reasonably healthy for now.

He opened the door and for a moment enjoyed the sight of the pathetic little creature covered with dirt and grime cowering in the darkest corner of the room. The drugs kept the boy fearful and terrified of everything around him.

"Come here, son," he called out.

The boy scrambled desperately over to his feet.

"Dad…" he whimpered, as told to.

"It's time for your lunch, son. Its steak sandwich today, as I promised. A reward for your good works yesterday," he announced magnanimously.

He watched as Joe grabbed the plate with both hands before retreating to gobble down his meal in his usual dark corner, looking more like an animal than a human.

Would Fenton see what his beloved son is going through now! Then again, he had video recordings of everything he puts Joe through. Fenton would get to view them eventually. He could almost taste the pleasure as he imagines the father's pain and horror.

"Are you ready for your next lesson?" he asked sternly with a malicious glint in his eyes the moment Joe finished the food and the coke.

There were several vigorous and desperate nods even as the boy continue licking off the last of the grease on the plate. He missed his meal the previous day.

Good, the boy was now eager to please, Andrew thought with much satisfaction.

"Your lesson today, son, is: How to skin a rodent alive. Just watch Frank carefully as he demonstrates to you how it is done."

Andrew watched the boy's face turned sickly white.

Some might wonder why not simply drive the boy overboard and turn him into a psychotic killer? No, Andrew wanted the boy to loathe everything he did, but he did them anyway because he was too traumatized and too terrified to disobey a direct order. Now, that is what he called sheer enjoyment and pure pleasure.

"And you will get a juicy steak with steamed vegetables for your lunch tomorrow if Frank is happy with your performance. Otherwise…" Andrew left that threat hanging as he passed Joe a scalpel similar to the one his son William was using.

His smile widened as a trembling hand slowly reached for the little scalpel.

It would not be long before his Joseph is ready to work on a real target.

-o-


	9. Merry Christmas to All

Its Christmas again, that merry time of the year,

Where friends and family gather, and together remember

All the good times of the years gone by.

Let all ill-will be forgotten and forgiven

All washed white by the falling snowflakes

Start the new year on a clean white slate

Its snowing again! Come let's make merry and be happy!

**_Amarin_**

-o-o-o-o-o-

Where thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow?  
_**William Shakespeare**_

I can forgive, but I cannot forget, is only another way of saying, I will not forgive. Forgiveness ought to be like a cancelled note--torn in two, and burned up, so that it never can be shown against one.  
_**Henry Ward Beecher**_

There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.  
_**Josh Billings**_


	10. Chapter 8

**_Thanks very much as usual for taking time to comment or review. _**

**_Things have been a little tough lately and I thank you for your patience. My family will also be moving to another home next month, so life will be interesting, I think. _**

**_I can only hope this chapter is okay. Please enjoy and have a Merry Christmas._**

**_A/N: I was scanning Yahoo Maps trying to find a suitable location for this scene. I got to Philadelphia, and then there was this river and a city called Camden. Somehow I kept thinking of Gotham city Batman and Morgan Freeman. I would like to say, while the city and location is real, everything else is made up and totally fictitious. Thank you.  
_**

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* * *

  
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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Eight**

-o-

The front office of the Camden Police Station in New Jersey, though large and airy, felt dark and dreary. It was not hard to imagine how grand this room would have looked as it was in its glory days perhaps five or six decades ago. Those days were clearly gone. Old and heavy wooden tables covered with unidentifiable stains or over laden with thick dusty files covered the badly scratched wooden floor. Dust and cobwebs graced the high ceilings, almost obliterating the intricate ceiling art that spoke of another age and another time. Every morning, the sun rays that filtered through the dirty glass windows were tainted a dull yellow. It was half past eight in the morning, and the few night shift officers were just preparing to drag their weary body home. Those coming in to replace their comrades looked little better, each holding on to a cup of steaming hot caffeine meant to keep them functioning for the rest of the day. It was clear that this particular police station was severely under-staffed, and a far cry from the clean and modern facilities available to the Bayport Police Officers.

There was a soft creaking sound. Fenton Hardy was feeling restless and trying hard to find a comfortable sitting position on the old hard bench. His elder son was equally restless, pacing to and fro in the tiny waiting area and glancing up at the clock every now and then. He knew what was gnawing ruthlessly at the back of Frank's mind: Andrew had Joe for almost eleven weeks now.

Fenton allowed himself a moment of fear and helplessness before willing those useless emotions aside. He needed to keep an objective mind if he were to have any chance of getting Joe back alive. Unfortunately, Andrew clearly had the upper hand at the moment. The Bayport PD forensic team went over the entire Apartment Unit 16 E of Atlantic Views several times. The fingerprints and DNA evidence screamed loudly of who was there. As expected, Andrew left absolutely no clue as to where he took Joe, or what the details of the next stage of his plans were. He, Frank, the FBI, and the Bayport Police Department questioned all the neighbors about the mysterious Mr. Edwin, who appeared to be a loner and looked nothing like Andrew Kempton. However, the portrait artist and criminal profiler pointed out that Mr. Edwin shared similar height, build, and facial features, indicating the use of a simple yet smart disguise. They also found out that Mr. Edwin owned and drove a dark green Chevy and the parking attendant of Atlantic Views even provided a license number. It was later discovered that the Chevy was stolen from another state, according to the engine serial number, and that the license number was a fake. Using pictures gathered from traffic violation cameras and some lucky witnesses, they eventually found the dark green Chevy abandoned in the underground parking lot at the JFK International Airport. Security cameras showed the car had been left there for eleven weeks. None of the airport staff recalled seeing anyone looking like Andrew Kempton or Mr. Edwin.

Fenton sighed tiredly. Sure, he and Frank checked all outgoing flights. But they both knew that Andrew could have taken a cab, a bus, a train, or even simply walked away in a brand new disguise. The investigation hits another dead end.

And then last night, Fenton received a phone call from an old friend, the current head of the New Jersey Police Department. Two bodies were found over the last three days in Camden, a large city of almost seventy thousand located along the Delaware River just across from Philly. From the evidence, it was clear that the Kemptons surfaced in Camden. A third victim was kidnapped the previous afternoon, the only teenage daughter of a fairly prominent local entrepreneur. Given that time was running out, would Fenton be interested in going down to help with the investigation? The entrepreneur was a good friend, and the local detective would be instructed to give his full cooperation. Fenton immediately contacted his personal pilot and friend, Jack Wayne, and arranged for the earliest possible flight into Camden the very next morning.

So here they were in Camden, waiting rather impatiently for the detective, a Mr. S. Freeman, to arrive.

"Mr. Hardy? I'm Detective Sean Freeman."

Detective Freeman was a tall tired looking well build African American in his late fifties who spoke in a deep gruffly voice.

"Fenton Hardy. This is my son, Frank. Thanks for agreeing to meet with us."

Detective Freeman eyed them for a short moment before simply gesturing for them to follow. "We have been instructed to give you our full cooperation, Mr. Hardy. My office is small and a little messy, but we'll have more privacy there."

Fenton knew then that Detective Freeman was not given a choice on this matter.

The detective's office was small and cramp. The old tag on the creaky door read: Sean Freeman, CSI Detective First Grade. The cabinets and shelves staggered under the weight of numerous files, looking like they were going to collapse at any moment. This man clearly earned his title with a lifetime of commitment.

"We have limited resources, Mr. Hardy. But we've been instructed to put this particular case as our top priority…" Sean waved his hand to stop Fenton from interrupting. "Do not misunderstand. We are so short staffed I will always appreciate any help sent my way. There are way too many unsolved cases here. I assure you I will help in every way I can. I just want to be honest about the reality of how much resources I can devote to this case. The foremost priority here for me is always the safety of the victim."

"I used to work for the 23rd Precinct with the New York City police department," Fenton responded, knowing Sean would understand what he meant.

"I assume your son Frank will be assisting you in this investigation?" Sean asked casually and Fenton felt his son tensed in his seat.

Fenton tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. Somehow, he knew Frank being a considered person, would accept and respect whatever Sean has to say.

"I always appreciate an extra hand and mind when it comes to solving crime. However, stay close to your father, watch your back, and be very careful. This is a very dangerous neighborhood," Sean continued in a light and self-depreciating tone. "We topped the national charts for the distinctive honor of being the "most dangerous city" based on crime statistics in five categories as set by the FBI: murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, and auto-theft."

Frank, surprised by Detective Freeman's easy acceptance of his involvement, acknowledged and thanked the detective for his advice.

"Here, you grow up quick or not at all," Sean answered wryly before turning dead serious as he starting passing the files from the box over to Fenton, and to Frank. "Here is all the information we have on the two victims so far. The first victim was a young homeless black girl from downtown. Her body was found four days ago lying across one of the bins in the city dump. The second victim was a street hooker in her mid-thirties her body left sprawled across a bench at a park as if she was merely sleeping."

Fenton nodded as he and Frank perused the crime scene photographs and the preliminary reports from the first officers on scene.

"Both women were tortured and raped before they were killed. DNA evidence collected from both bodies came from three males: Andrew Kempton, William Kempton…" Sean answered in a grave tone, and then turned to face Fenton directly before continuing in a softer and gentler tone. "… and Joseph Hardy."

That caught him and Frank off-guard.

"No! My brother would never…" Frank blurted out instinctively.

The note left behind in the Atlantic Views apartment played itself in Fenton's mind over and over.

But Andrew was wrong. Joe was his son, and would always be his son no matter what. He had no doubt Andrew could drug or terrify his sons or even himself into doing things they would not do normally. His foremost concern now was the psychological impact on Joe when his younger son realized what he had done. For Joe's sake, he hoped fervently that the forensics report was wrong. Forensic science was after all hardly an exact science. He turned to Frank who was staring at the report, his face pale and his lips drawn into a thin white line.

"First we get Joe back," he said to Frank.

Then they would face and work through all the problems as a family, both father and son agreed silently.

"I know about your younger son, and what Andrew Kempton threatened to do. This was also why I felt it unwise for you to be involved in this case…" Sean confessed. "But my superiors insisted."

"How bad is the material evidence?" Fenton asked.

"We know what a good lawyer can do, Mr. Hardy. The DNA evidence from the victims' nails came from the Kemptons, suggesting that Joseph was not directly involved in their abduction or restraining them. Unfortunately, traces of semen from all three males were found on and in the victims' body…"

Fenton nodded grimly, better to know all the ugly details now.

"Personally, I think the semen could be planted," Sean added, much to Fenton's surprise. "You can go through the finer details with Anna, our forensic pathologist later. But I think our priority is to find Diana Hunt. According to that cryptic note left behind by Andrew Kempton, Diana has only until the witching hour tonight. I was hoping your familiarity with Andrew's past might help give us a clue as to what he was thinking and planning."

Who could tell what goes on in a mad man's mind? Fenton wondered bleakly. But he never had the chance to read that cryptic note. Several hard and loud raps on the door got all their attention, and the door burst opened without warning. A young police officer stood at the door looking every flustered and excited.

"Sorry to intrude, Sir! The morning patrol just picked up Ms. Hunt near the old waterfront. She's currently undergoing treatment at the Camden State Hospital…"

-o-

"NO!"

Mr. Hunt's reaction was exactly what Frank expected.

"My daughter is traumatized enough…"

Frank understood the father's perspective, but he found it hard to accept. He clenched his fingers and forced himself to stay in the background as his father and Detective Freeman try to persuade the protective father to let them talk to his daughter. Diana was after all their best chance to find the Kempton's lair in Camden in the shortest possible time, and their only link to Joe at this point in time. There were several officers scouring the old waterfront area where Diana was first seen and picked up. That was one big and cluttered area. They would find the lair eventually, but by then they might be left with another cold trail. No, they need Diana's help…

A trained female officer and counselor, Detective Freeman wheedled. And she would be gentle and non-intrusive.

"No."

The father was proving unreasonably stubborn, Frank decided just as unreasonably. There was another victim to be rescue. And not just any other victim; his little brother! Frank took a step forward and prepared to beg…

"Dill…" A very agitated and worried woman called out. "It's Diana… she's very upset. She wants to speak to a police officer… "

Given the fact that she shared many similar features with the photograph of Diana Hunt, Frank supposed this woman is Mrs. Hunt.

"She doesn't have to do it now, dear. The police can wait…" Dillon Hunt began.

Mrs. Hunt cut in firmly. "Diana is sixteen. She's very upset. There's someone else there. She needs to talk to someone NOW. Turning to Detective Freeman, she added. "I prefer, no I insist on only ONE FEMALE officer."

That was how he, his father, and Detective Freeman ended up waiting impatiently outside Diana's Hunt private ward while a female officer cum counselor chatted with Diana. Her two parents watched over her like two lions. But they could hear part of Diana's agitatedly loud voice seeping through the almost closed door.

"I ran and ran… lots of turns… lost… a brand name "Maxwell" something painted onto the wall…"

Frank strained his ears and listened intently, as his Dad and Detective Freeman was. He was glad to see Detective Freeman already marking down several locations on a map.

Then…

"You have to find him…"

Frank's heart missed a beat. He could hear a deep indrawn breath from his father.

"… young man… blond… helped me…"

That had to be Joe! Frank thought.

"They wanted him to hurt me… he refused…"

Of course not! Joe would never hurt anyone!

"They hurt him. God, how they hurt him…"

Diana was getting more and more agitated; her words were coming faster and louder.

"I thought he gave in… I was so scared… he fake it… told me to run when he said run… run and never looked back…"

Frank waited with bated breath for Diana's next words. He felt both pride and fear for his little brother. It was the fear that won.

"I ran. God forgive me, I ran and never looked back… I think he tried to stop them from coming after me…"

The words were coming even faster now. So fast he could barely decipher them.

"…He shouted 'run' and then he screamed. Oh my god, I can still hear him screams. I can still hear his screams…"

And then Diana broke down and cried.

It was then that Frank realized his own face was already wet.

-o-

Andrew Kempton glared down at the quivering lump of flesh on the bloody and grimy cement floor. He was furious, so furious even William fidgeted nervously waiting for further instructions.

How dare Joseph defy him and spoil his master plan! He gave the broken body on the floor another vicious kick. The body did not respond. That broke Andrew out of his blind rage. He bent down and checked for the pulse. The boy was still alive.

Good! Andrew smiled as yet another plan formed in his mind. Joseph was turning out to be tougher but much more fun than he expected. Thank goodness he did not kill the boy in his rage. Andrew did a quick preliminary check on the boy. A badly bruised torso, and possibly several broken bones. No visible signs of abuse on parts of the body that could not be concealed by clothing, such as the face.

The smile grew wider. This situation was salvageable, Andrew thought as he started issuing instructions to William. First they needed to execute a getaway. He knew exactly how that could be done.

-o-o-0-o-o-

I am Joe.

That's all I need or want to remember. I do not want to know my family name. In fact, I will reject that name if I know.

My Dad, you see, is a psychopath. His name is Fenton. He enjoys hurting people. Eventually they all die. Maybe one or two did escape, but those were the lucky few, the outliers on any statistical chart. But my Dad calls himself an investigator; a highly qualified medical investigator. He did all sorts of terrible experiments; maimed and killed lots of people. He is well-paid for his efforts.

You might wonder: who would employ someone like my Dad?

Big respectable pharmaceutical companies… and several other much less reputable sources.

Inhumane human and animal testing was frowned upon today. Yet the affluent miracle cures for their illnesses. That is where my Dad fit into the big picture. He did terrible things in the name of pushing the medical frontier and helping people. But I know the truth. Dad enjoys hurting people. This is the perfect profession for him.

I have an elder brother. His name is Frank. He is my father's pride and joy. He is everything my Dad wants him to be. He is becoming as skilled as my Dad.

And I? I am a failure. That is why I am in the shape I am in now: half starved and half-dead.

They tried to mould me into what they are. I am ashamed to admit at one point in time I tried to become what they wanted me to be.

Then there was this girl. They wanted me to rape her and then operate on her. She was staring up at me with her pale blue eyes. I could not tear my gaze from terror in her eyes. I knew then I could not, no matter the cost to me.

It was because I remembered Mom. I hung on to her image, her love, her compassion, and her humanity with everything I had. You see, we might live in a mad, mad, world. But I am born sane. As my Mom told me when she was still alive, I always have a choice, because God gave me that capacity to choose.

So I choose to do the right thing.

I helped that girl escape. I hoped to God she escaped.

For I am not like them – I am like Mom. I am Joe. And I am not like… them.

Dad was so mad he near killed me. But he did not. He nursed me back to life but not to health. I am now his guinea pig for his medical experiments. I do not remember what my life used to be like. But I remember always being afraid and fearful. I am no longer fearful, not unless my Dad drugged me with one of his terror-inducing concoctions. I have looked Death in the eye and made my choice. Now, when not in pain, I know a peace of sorts.

I move restlessly. I seek a more comfortable position. The shackles about my wrist and ankles chafed at my skin. Just out of my reach was an array of sharp and deadly medical gears. I know all of them intimately.

Last week, I lost two little toes on my left foot. I almost lost my entire left leg. But as I told you, my Dad is highly skilled. He managed to save the whole of it – except for two little toes. My Dad and my brother were experimenting with 'new improved treatments' for severe cases of frostbite. I sat for hours and days with my legs buried in huge tubs filled with salted ice. My poor legs were frozen and thawed many times over. Did you know that the key treatments we have for severe frostbites came from the Japanese experiments on the prisoners of war way back in World War Two?

My stomach growled painfully. When was it I last ate? I do not know. But my body cries for food and my soul cries for love. Did Dad and Frank leave and left me to starve to death alone in the dark? Perhaps that is a good thing, for then I can be with Mom again.

Still a part of me refused to die. I don't know why I should want to live. But I do want to live. Sorry Mom, I want to be with you, but I am still not ready to die. Not yet…

Wait! I hear sounds of footsteps heading towards me. I am still of use to Dad and Frank after all. Soon, they are standing right in front of me.

"Dad, Frank," I greeted them they way they expected me to, and waited for them to hand me my daily bread.

They did not. Instead, they both have this terrible smile on their face. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a real deep seated fear from the depths of my soul that was not drug-induced. Dad held up a needle filled with a strange amber colored liquid.

"My final test on you, son… this time, you will give me the results I want, and then you are free to join your beloved mother in heaven…"


	11. Chapter 9

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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Nine**

-o-

On a long and narrow curvy road stretched across a dry and rocky landscape was an old dirty Four Wheel Drive. That huge car was speeding westwards into the sunset, leaving behind a billowing trail of dust. In the car were two men, one younger and one older.

The younger one, who was also the driver, lifted his eyes from the road for an instant, to silently bid goodbye to the blurred and shadowy silhouette of the Smokey Mountains on his rearview mirror that were slowly fading away into the darkening background. That fulfilling part of his life was over, and he was looking forward to more challenges with his father in the foreseeable future.

The older man who shared many similar features with the younger was studying a huge map spread out across his lap, trying to decide the exact location where they should be heading next. His eyes fell on his watch, and he smiled. Fenton and his friends should be closing in on the mountain cabin, if they were not already there. He left behind such obvious clues, and planned everything so well, that he was confident that Fenton would get to his younger son before the effects of the drugs wear out totally.

First, there was the obvious torture and murder in a neighboring town to bring Fenton into the area. A seemingly accidental stopover at a small independent roadside grocery left a crucial clue pointing Hardy in the right direction. Finally, there was this well-timed robbery cum murder scene, with a surviving witness just so that she could tell Hardy where his hideout was. Then he and his son left town using a roundabout route, never returning to the cabin.

Andrew Kempton was still a little irritated by the fact that Joseph had the temerity thwart his original plan. Then again, there were many ways to inflict physical pain, and even more ways to inflict emotional pain. A true professional like him could well appreciate the tenacity of one like Joseph, just as he admire the strength of will of both Fenton and Frank Hardy. It was because of his respect for all those characters that he expended so much time and effort thinking, plotting, and planning. They were worthy adversaries, and the pleasure was worth every second of his time and energy.

Those poor, poor Hardys… As Andrew imagined the scene that would play out, he felt a pleasure so intense, he could almost taste it. Joseph's last hours would be intensely uncomfortable, but it would be Fenton and Frank that would have to live with the consequences.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end, Andrew Kempton sighed regretfully. After all, one of the keys to his long term survival in this cat and mouse game with the law was to know when to move on. He seriously doubt if he would be able to derive as much pleasure from any of his future victims. Then again, one could never be certain what the future holds, he concluded philosophically.

As he returned his attention to the map on his lap, he could not help but to wonder, would it be the father or the son who would have the honor of driving Joseph over the edge?

-o-

It was a reasonably big and coordinated operation involving the local sheriffs, the local park rangers, the state police, the FBI and several other detectives and officers from neighboring states. They were determined to end the twenty-plus-years killing spree by two of the wiliest serial killers they ever encountered. This time, they believed they had the best chance to do so. Simply because this time, the killer went personal. And that, according to all textbook theories, was when killers made mistake and get caught.

The members of the various law enforcement agencies worked together swiftly and efficiently. They had just this one chance of surprising and cornering the Kemptons. That was because, unbeknownst to the Kemptons, they left behind a living witness. Rachel Johnson of Gatlinburg was critically injured but still aware enough to want justice for her dead son and husband. She told the sheriff she overheard Andrew telling William they needed to bring some gear back to Gunter's place. That was the old ranger cabin halfway up the Old Black.

Within an hour of Rachel's statement, road blocks were set up at all potential escape routes. All remaining men were then divided into three teams, each taking one of the three known dirt tracks leading up close to that cabin. They knew they would have to cover the final mile or so on foot, depending which route they were on. They took with them two trained Alsatians, in case the Kemptons made a dash for the woods. Finally, they had two paramedics and a small paramedic van following at the rear. They have been briefed about a teenage boy, and that boy could be in bad physical or mental shape.

It was late afternoon by the time the men quietly converged on the cabin in the woods that had lain silent and forgotten for decades. It was clearly lived in, but it was also empty. Some of the men gnashed their teeth in frustration, bemoaning the possibility that the Kemptons were alerted to their coming and had made another getaway. But wait! Perhaps the Kemptons were just out hunting or something and that perhaps they should just withdrew and wait outside, one of the officers suggested. Set the dogs loose, another suggested. If the Kemptons were just alerted, they could not have gone far. Another officer yelled that the dogs found something. It was a hidden door leading underground. They opened it and were greeted by an incredible stench of rotting flesh and perhaps more. One of the younger officers rushed out of the cabin to puke in the bushes.

Camden CSI Detective Sean Freeman shook his head at the pale-faced youthful officer, pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket, covered his nose and carefully made his way down the little hellhole. He knew two of the older and more experienced officers followed to back him up, but the only thought on his mind was to find out if there were any bodies or survivors to be found. Even with all his years dealing with numerous gruesome murders, he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him. The wall before him was a neat array of medical tools and medieval torture gears. The sharp metallic tools were so clean they gleamed evilly in the pale beam from his old torchlight. Stacked against the wall to his left was what he could best describe as a bloodied butcher's worktable and a bin that was overflowing with rotting biological parts that was causing the stink in the room. The only thing he could say from his first glance was that nothing in that bin appeared human, which could be a relief… or not.

A movement and a low moan from the darkest corner caught his attention. He turned and headed deeper into the shadows…

This was Joseph Hardy he was looking at, he knew without a doubt, even though the boy before him looked nothing like the photograph of that carefree healthy teenager that the father and brother had so willingly shared with him. The groveling and naked creature at his feet was all skin and bones and covered with bleeding sores. He was instantly reminded of an old documentary he watched about the old lepers' colonies.

Still… the boy was alive! Sixteen weeks after he was kidnapped by the Kemptons, Joseph Hardy was still alive, and that was a miracle, Detective Freeman thought as he sent one of the other two for the paramedics. Then he knelt down to make himself less intimidating and started talking to the clearly terrified and sick boy in soft soothing tones.

-o-

"Joe's in that cabin, Dad. I know he is… I just know…"

Frank Hardy stood behind a shrub just within sight of the old Gunter's cabin with his father, as politely requested by the officer-in-charge of this operation. His entire body was coiled tensed as a wound up spring as he fought against his natural instinct to rush to the cabin and to his brother's rescue. His fingers were clenched so tight, it hurts. His Dad was not in much better shape, he could see his Dad's fingers gripping so tightly to the tree trunk it looked like Fenton was going to gorge a chunk off the bark with his bare hands.

"He is," his Dad answered in a low calm voice that belied his nervousness.

Because Andrew had already all but stated it would be so… both father and son were thinking at the back of their minds.

Yet despite their fears, they stood and waited as they were told. They had a deal with the FBI; they could come along but only if they stay in the background and let the respective officers do their job. The FBI did not want the Hardys to be directly involved on the ground operation because they believed that the situation might become just too personal for the Hardys. Fenton Hardy agreed most reluctantly on the condition that he was allowed to participate in the planning but he would stay back during the execution of the operation – the father understood the value of the assistance of a national agency like the FBI when it comes to hunting down and apprehending someone as cunning and sneaky as Andrew Kempton.

Frank understood his father's, the other detectives' and police's concerns. He was there when Andrew Kempton stood over him and taunted him and tormented him. He was there when his Dad and Sam tried unsuccessfully to track down Andrew's movements from Bayport. He was there in Camden when they found the Kemptons' hideout at the old waterfront. They tracked the rather distinctive tire tracks and flecks of blue paint all they way down south to Cape May before the Kemptons disappeared mysteriously into thin air. It was almost as if the Kemptons drove straight into the Atlantic, Detective Freeman quipped darkly as the three of them stood at an isolated lookout and stared into the endless blue of the Atlantic. Two days later, the blue van was pulled out of the ocean. It was almost as if the Kemptons had anticipated their thoughts and strove to meet it with their own brand of morbid humor. Frank knew exactly how his Dad felt and what his Dad meant when he said: we did every thing right but Andrew was just several steps ahead.

But Andrew Kempton could not continue forever. Eventually, that man would make mistakes, and then he would be caught. He already made at least one – Andrew clearly underestimated Joe. But let the arrest be the job of the officers of the law. All Frank cared about was getting his brother back. Nothing else mattered. Frank returned his focus to the cabin that was barely visible from where he stood and waited. He knew, and his father knew, that there would be no holding him back the moment he sees his brother. Then again, that part had nothing to do with the actual capture of the Kemptons. The FBI should not complain about him interfering if he was to rush forward, or so the dark haired youth reasoned.

The minutes, the seconds crawled by…

"Frank… Joe might not…"

As Fenton's hesitant voice faded off, Frank knew his father was referring to the note that Andrew left behind at the Atlantic Views apartment back in Bayport. Andrew was wrong. He would never reject his own brother. And Joe might be a little confused and appalled by whatever he thought he did at first, but with tender loving care, Joe would eventually recover. Frank believed in that with every fiber of his being, only because the alternative was unthinkable and unacceptable to him.

"Joe will probably be in bad shape. He will need time. But he's strong," he told his father and willed his father to share in his confidence. "And we'll be there for him every step of the way…"

"Mr. Hardy…"

Frank, like his father, swiveled around at that familiar voice. Detective Freeman was approaching from behind, his expression grave. He waited with bated breath.

"Joseph is currently being treated by the paramedics…"

Both father and son heaved a huge sigh of relief as they turned in unison and started to head towards the paramedic truck that was parked a 'safe' distance away from the Gunter's cabin. Detective Freeman stepped in and blocked their path, earning two dark glares.

"He's in a bad shape," Freeman warned.

Frank nodded automatically – he wished otherwise, but he expected that. Again he tried to move pass Freeman.

"Physically as well as mentally…" Freeman added in a hard and serious tone that got both his and Dad's full attention. "Joseph's in an extremely volatile state of mind, shifting quickly from sheer terror to rage to almost unresponsive passivity. His pupils are dilated, indicating he is heavily drugged. The paramedics have no idea what he was given, and he is not responding to the usual sedatives…"

Frank and his Dad closed their eyes for an instant. That was all too familiar.

"He is certainly not reacting well to the presence of too many people," Freeman continued now that the Hardys were more ready to listen. "It took both paramedics quite a while to calm him down and moved him to the medical truck. They are still trying to assess his state and figure out the best way to transport him to the nearest hospital. One of them is still in the cabin scanning the medical notes Kempton left behind for clues as to what was given to Joseph. I know you want to see him, but the paramedics request that you give him some space for now, and to take it real slow so as not to startle him."

Both father and son nodded their acquiescence. If time was what Joe needed, they could give him that, especially if they could see with their own two eyes that he was all right.

It was a sorry sight that greeted them, nevertheless they feasted on the sight that Joe was still alive. The tiny figure crouching on a little rock hunched over a steaming mug of drink with a thermal blanket half wrapped around him was looked so cowed and so skeletal; a far cry from the laughing muscular star quarterback on the Bayport football team. Bleeding sores covered the exposed part of the body, and the paramedic was still gently treating the back which was clearly flayed by whips. They had to muster every ounce of will-power they could not to rush forward.

Frank had to admit, it was the fear and suspicion in Joe's eyes that held him back. His brother was clearly very frightened. Joe's shifty eyes were always scanning his environment. He looked ready to bolt any second.

"Joseph refused to get onto the paramedic truck," Freeman said softly. "I think the interior of the truck with the enclose space and medical equipment reminded him too much of…"

"How bad was it?" Fenton asked in a harsh voice; the father did not really want to know, yet the father must know if he was to be able to help his son fully.

"Mr. Hardy… the dogs are tracing the Kemptons through the woods," another voice cut in. "The forensic team is currently going through the crime scene."

It was the local sheriff. He tilted his head slightly towards Joe before adding gently. "There is something you should see…"

"Go ahead Dad, I'll keep an eye on Joe," Frank assured his father when Fenton hesitated.

If Kempton left something behind that concerns Joe, then at least one of them should be aware of what that was. Yet as much as Frank would like to know, there was no way he would leave his brother now. Not when he just got to see him after sixteen long weeks. It would have to be his father. He would stay where he could keep Joe in sight, plain and simple. So he stayed and watched as his father walked off with the sheriff.

Something in the distance sent a flock of birds flying. Frank could see the immediate and volatile reaction from his brother. The steaming mug and the paramedic both went flying as Joe scrambled off the rock and took a defensive position with his back to the paramedic truck, his eyes wild yet terrified. He snarled as the paramedic tried to approach.

Frank could take it no longer. Ignoring the paramedics' request, he got down on his knees and slowly made his way towards Joe. He stayed low on the ground copying the paramedic's every move. He knew what the paramedic was doing. Joe at this point in time was a frightened and injured animal. So both he and the paramedic must appear smaller or unintimidating, and must be able to offer comfort. He made sure Joe knew that he was there before he slowly approached. As he got closer, he started reaching out by talking to Joe in soft soothing tones.

"I'm Frank. His brother…" Frank whispered back to the paramedic when he asked.

Neither of them took their eyes off Joe's eyes. Those deep blue eyes were the only clues they had as to whether they could move closer or back off.

For a moment, Frank's heart sank when he thought he saw sheer terror in those familiar blue eyes. Then that fear was gone, to be replaced by a blankness that Frank found most unnerving. Even the paramedic was concerned. But Joe had allowed them to replace the thermal blanket, and allowed Frank to lead him back to the rock.

And Frank thought everything was fine. But how wrong he was…

In that instant where he relaxed to watch Joe sip on his next mug of warm drink, Joe moved with a suddenness and agility that took both him and the paramedic by surprise.

Next Frank knew Joe was racing into the woods and away from them.

He followed in a race that seemed to last forever. He knew the paramedic and at least one other person was following him. He pushed ahead. The gap between him and Joe was narrowing. A few more steps and Joe would be within tackling range…

Then the trees fell away and Frank found himself on a bare rocky clearing.

Something cold and wet touched his face and for the merest instant, he froze.

It was water. Droplets of water…

No… not now, Frank thought desperately as he took several deep gulps of air fighting hard against the panic attack he felt lurking just beneath his thin veneer of self-control. He threw all his focus onto the fact that Joe needed him. It worked, and his terror retreated.

And that fraction of a second cost him, more dearly than he ever thought possible. By the time his eyes focused on the environment around him again, he saw that Joe was more than twenty feet away crouching at the very edge of the cold and slippery precipice staring blankly into the waterfall far, far below.

There was no way he could reach his brother on time. He could only plead…

"Joe… please… don't…"

And pray…

-o-

At the point in time when the local sheriff first handed him that huge package that Andrew addressed to him, Fenton had no idea of the drama and tragedy that was occuring just about a mile from where he stood. He read the letter and was assailed by a sudden need to see that both his sons were still fine. He left the cabin in a rush.

_Dear Fenton, _

_Now we are even: A wife for a wife, a son for a son, a brother for a brother, and a mother for a mother._

_I have left behind a collection of video recordings of Joseph's life in the last four months for your viewing pleasure. I have also included a medical journal detailing his medical condition throughout his stay with us._

_You might wonder: why not kill you too? The answer is simple – you are simply too much fun to kill. One day, when we are bored, we will meet again. William is already looking forward to playing with Frank. May the better son win…_

_Until then,_

_Andrew Kempton._


	12. Chapter 10

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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Ten**

-o-

Whatever my Dad injected into me was meant to torment me before killing me. My skin itched and burned. Soon sores started appearing all over. I could not help but to scratch them, the pores burst, the pus mixed with blood gushed out, and the wounds stung – badly.

Then there was that familiar drug-induced terror, the worst I ever experienced; a tiny part of me knew what the fear I felt was unreal, yet I could not help but to react in sheer terror whenever I thought I saw something moved in the shadows.

It was hell and I could not wait for it to be over.

Then someone came. I retreated deeper into the darkness in fear. But he was gentle and seemingly kind. Then there were two others. They seemed nice too. I eventually let them coaxed me out of the darkness that was my home for an eternity. It was so good to be able to breathe in the crisp fresh air again…

I cried. This was just unreal. Perhaps I died and this was heaven.

I still flinched and reacted violently when something startled me, but I tried hard to control myself. It never worked, but those two men in white were patient and kind. Perhaps they were angels…

But as I knew, that was too good to be true. Dad and Frank would never let me go to heaven. As always, they dangled a carrot before me, only to take it away from me again, just to savor the disappointment I felt.

Something happened that left me cowering in terror.

Then there was this other man approaching me. There was something familiar about him. Brown hair and brown eyes… a tiny fear started in my guts and grew. I turned desperately to my angel…

"I'm Frank… His brother…" the brown haired brown eyed man said.

My angel let him approached. My heart bled. Whatever hopes I had died there and then. I was going to be alone again. I was always meant to be alone, just as Dad and Frank told me repeatedly.

Frank moved even closer. My terror grew, but I blanked out my fears from my eyes but not from my heart. I knew too well what Dad and Frank could and would do to me if I showed them even the slightest fear. I let my angel draped that blanket over me again. I followed docilely as Frank drew me back to that little rock. Then my angel gave me another steaming mug. I took it.

I was not ready to die, and I did not want to go back to Dad and Frank again. I had only one option – run. To where, I knew not, but I knew I had to run away somewhere somehow.

I could feel my adrenaline flowing as I pretended to drink and listen to Frank's seemingly soothing voice. It was all for show in front of my angel, I knew. Then I saw the opening. With lightning quick movement, I flung my mug towards Frank's face, shove my angel off balance and made a dash for the woods.

I ran and ran for my dear life. I tripped, fell, picked myself up and scrambled on. Perhaps I should have wondered how I knew exactly where to go and when to turn. I did not – all I wanted was to get as far away from Frank and Dad as possible.

I tripped again. I could hear Frank calling my name. His voice sounded closer. Darn! He was going to catch me soon! I redoubled my efforts and managed to speed up despite my miserable state of health. It was fear and desperation that drove me.

Then the woods fell away and I found myself on a wet rocky ledge. I screeched to a stop at the very edge of a precipice overlooking a most beautiful waterfall.

I could hear Frank coming up behind me, and I knew I was trapped. There was no way I could fight my way pass Frank in my current physical state. I sank down onto the wet and rocky floor.

But I was not ready to die! A part of me wailed. I could not imagine ever going back to the life Dad and Frank had for me either. The sounds of the falling water roared loudly in my ears, so loud I could barely hear my pounding heart. I stared at the water falling down into the dark abyss below. Was that the only choice left to me? My heart railed at the injustice of it all.

Suddenly, I felt the warmth of the late afternoon sun on me. Something compelled me to look up into the sky. A strangely shaped wisp of a cloud beckoned. My heart lightened. I knew then what I had to do.

That cloud was my Mom watching over me. She was my guardian angel. She loved me and forgave what I did.

"Joe… don't…" I heard Frank say.

Slowly I stood up and turned around to face Frank. He was almost twenty feet away from me. I gave him a triumphant smile, knowing that there was no way he could reach me on time.

My eyes reached out for that cloud as I took that fateful step backwards.

"Love you, Mom," I mouthed as I let myself fall backwards and into the waterfall.

It was all in God's hands now. And I knew Mom would always be watching over me. For the first time in a long time, I felt peace. I could feel a gentle smile tugging my lips. I had forgotten what it was like to smile…

I could hear Frank's anguished screams. I supposed he was angry at losing a prized toy. I was no longer willing to be that toy. And I no longer have to be that toy.

My smile widened as I floated downwards and even further away from that precipice. I could feel the wind caressing me and enfolding me in its protective embrace. I kept my eyes on that cloud that was my Mom.

I won.

I am free.

-o-o-0-o-o-

This was the morning after.

The father sat slumped in the old armchair next to the bed where his elder son lay sleeping. He was waiting for Frank to sleep off the effects of the sedatives.

As he waited, Andrew's parting words replayed cruelly over and over in his mind.

Fenton had not yet had the chance to view any of the recordings, but he knew he would in spite of the pain he knew that would bring him. Why? Why do it to himself? Sam Radley, Ezra Collig, and several other aquaintances who had flown over to help out in the hunt all asked him. The answer was so logically simple yet not exactly rational. He had to, because that would be his punishment for failing his younger son.

He buried his face in his hands and cried as the events of yesterday relived itself in his mind. By the time he rushed back to the clearing where both his sons were supposed to be after reading that letter, the clearing was eerily empty and silent. Then the paramedic appeared, followed by two officers carrying a heavily sedated Frank. Joseph, the paramedic said in a gentle tone, fell off a ledge into the waterfall. He knew then the paramedic was not telling him the whole truth. Several rangers were making their way to the base of the hundred foot fall to start the search. But Fenton could tell from the various expressions that none of them were hopeful – plus it was almost night. The search would likely have to resume in the morning. And so, the tranquilizer that was meant for Joe ended up being used on Frank to prevent him from going over the ledge after his brother. The paramedic van that was meant for Joe ended up being used to transport Frank to the hospital…

The weak rays of the morning sun barely touched the shadowed corners of the old little room. And here alone in the room, his logical mind battled his hopeful heart.

The fall was over a hundred foot high, his mind pointed out systematically. Joe was clearly in bad physical shape, so even if the water was deep enough, he might not be able to take the impact of the fall. And if he did, how could he survive the cold autumn night alone in the woods with nary a piece of clothing on him?

Then again, he knew of cases where people survived more than a hundred foot free fall, Fenton's heart whispered in soft hopeful tones. And Joe was a very good swimmer, well versed in survival techniques, not to mention the fact that his younger son always seem to have the devil's luck on his side all these years.

But there was hope and there was reality. His eyes fell on his elder son who was still sleeping just in front of him. The father bowed his head in despair – what was he going to tell Frank?

"Fent…?"

God… he forgot all about Laura… Jack Wayne must have flown her in.

And his wife was standing in front of him.

Laura was still recovering from her chest wounds. She was slim, but now she was skinny. Her skin was sickly pale, almost translucent, a mark of how badly the recent events affected her health. Tears marred a face that was usually bright and cheery.

"Joe?"

What could he say? He could not bring himself to say the most probable truth.

"They are still searching…" Fenton answered instead, and he hated himself for that.

Laura nodded. "Joe always has lady luck on his side…"

They smiled at each other tearily. They were both in denial and they both knew it.

"Laura…"

The tone was so soft and so lost, Laura for a moment forgot her own grief and needs. Her husband needed her, and that was all she needed to know. Laura simply squeeze into that little space next to her husband of twenty years and held him tight. She whispered words of comfort that was meaningless yet meant everything only because she was the one who said them. Finally Fenton faced her, and gently, her eyes veered towards Frank.

Then Fenton knew. He was desperately looking for comfort and a reason to live on, and Laura gave him just that. A part of the burden of guilt he carried dissipated. His wife did not blame him, she accepted him and his choice of career and everything that came with it, and she was going to continue standing by him. He thanked God again for giving him such a wonderful woman to be his wife and his mate. He held her even tighter to him, grateful that she survived what Andrew did. There was no way he could have lived on otherwise…

"Its not over…"

This time, the husband would be honest with his wife. William would come for Frank. He knew it; he could feel it in his bones. It was better they all be prepared.

Laura's eyes darkened as she geared herself for more bad news.

"Dad… Mom…"

Both parents turned towards that raspy voice. Frank was finally awake.

Frank's eyes, Fenton noted uneasily, were surprisingly clear and lucid given what he knew happened on that slippery ledge.

"Joe's alive…" Frank said. "I saw that glint in his eyes. He has every intention to live… Now all we have to do is to find him…"

Fenton could not decide whether Frank's calm, cool, and rational tone assured or scare him.


	13. Chapter 11

_**My apologies. My connections just not functioning properly and I just could not load the chapter.**_

_**Thanks Polaris, Liz, Chromde and Ms Fenway for your gracious support.**_

_**I am moving on Fri - I hope to get the net connection up asap.  
**_

_**Thanks for the pms - I have reorg and updated chap 9 and 10. Will not do any more so-called 'extra-long' stuff and stick to pre-plan. I had to stop where I did at the old version of 10 because from this point on is 6 years into the future and should start as a new chapter rather than be lump in with the past. Thanks for your patience and given my current state of life, I beg for your continued patience.  
**_

_**This chapter is all Frank. Next one is all Joe. If all goes well, the brothers get to meet the chapter after next - assuming Kempton do not crash the party ;p**_

**_Pls enjoy this chapter.  
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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Eleven**

-o-

It was the evening of February 13th, 2002.

The cloud laden evening sky weighed heavily down on the general population below.

A tall man with silvery streaks running through his dark brown head leapt into an old weather-beaten Lincoln that was being driven by an older black man. The car sped off even before the passenger door slammed shut. The two men were on their way to join the others at a failed major real estate project on the southern end of Bayport Marina. Those neglected half completed buildings were the perfect playground for someone like the Kemptons.

"Found Frank yet?" Fenton asked as his eyes again scanned the tiny GPS screen on his lap, his only link to his son's location, and possibly the Kemptons' too.

"Frank will be fine. He's prepared and he knows what he's letting himself in for," Chief Collig who was driving assured him. "My men are already in place. They started discreetly sweeping the area the moment you gave the go ahead."

_'Which was only fifteen minutes ago,'_ Fenton acknowledged with a grim nod.

The father returned his gaze to window, watching without seeing the familiar sights that flashed by him as the Lincoln cruised towards his target destination. His mind had more important matters to handle.

Six years, and William Kempton finally made good his threats. And so much changed over the last six years! Fenton thought. The population of Bayport has almost doubled. It was now a thriving city and no longer the safe suburbia that it was when he first moved in about a decade ago.

But what mattered most remained unchanged.

The family never gave up hope that somehow Joe survived. They believed that the youngest member of the family was out there somewhere slowly recovering from everything that the Kemptons did to him. They watched all the video recordings and read the journal that Andrew left behind. They all ended up spending months with their psychiatrist. They eventually rationalized that Joe would need time to recover, and when he was well again, he would remember. And when Joe finally remembers, he would come home.

Part of that steadfast hope, Fenton admitted, was due to Frank refusing to give up. Every school vacation, his elder son would return to some of the numerous towns around The Smokies, pasting up and distributing flyers on a missing person – Joe. Soon, he and Laura found themselves joining Frank on those trips. Every year, they would check with the national park rangers and the local sheriffs; did anyone left any replies? Then they would assure themselves that no body was found. Finally, they would return to their home on Elm Street and wait…

Before they knew it, six years flew by. William came, but he did not confront Frank directly. Instead, William Kempton kidnapped Callie, and left behind a note requesting that the father personally deliver his son in exchange for the return of an innocent victim.

He and Frank followed every instruction to the letter in an intricate route around Bayport that was designed to rout any tails they had. It was a game at which the Kemptons excelled in. At the end of the journey, he was given the unenviable task of rendering his own son helpless. The symbolism of that act was not lost on the father.

"Do it, Dad," Fenton recalled Frank whispering to him with a grim smile. "I still have some tricks up my sleeve… just find Callie and keep her safe…"

He could only pray back then that his son was honest with him as he emptied the unknown contents of syringe into Frank's arm under William's sharp scrutiny.

"Just hang on… I will come back for you," he whispered back.

"I know," Frank answered softly.

The faith and trust was unmistakable; and a tear landed on the back of his hand. He did not bother to hide that tear from William. It was something that young man would never understand. Let William believed him weak. That, he could use to his full advantage.

"Where is she?" Fenton demanded after checking again that the cuffs on Frank were secure, as instructed by William.

His resolve almost faltered as he heard Frank's increasingly labored breathing.

William laughed and threw him a big brown envelop. "Don't worry; I'm not killing your son just yet. You should however be more concerned about the girl. She has less than three hours left. Just remember: if she dies before you get to her, I will return your son to you alive…"

Fenton's brow lifted in surprise.

"After I have my fun with him, of course," William added almost as an afterthought. "If she lives, Frank's life is mine…"

At the sight of Fenton's disbelieving expression, William added: "I did say: 'one life'. But you, Mr. Hardy, gets to decide which life you want to save."

Then William disappeared with Frank hoist over his broad shoulders.

Fenton opened the envelope and cursed. It was as he expected. A macabre treasure hunt with the life of the woman his son loves as the prize. He ran for his car. Perhaps it was his fear of letting his son down again, but somehow he managed to get his old brains to function overtime to work out all the clues and got to Callie just before the axe falls.

Now that she was safe, he could focus on finding Frank and bringing his son home.

Fenton's eyes returned to the state-of-art gadget on his lap. Thanks to his connections to the Network, he knew roughly where Frank was. The almost microscopic-sized non-metallic tracking chip that was injected into Frank had escaped detection by the portable metal detector he thought the Kemptons might use.

"Almost there, Fenton," Chief Freeman announced.

Fenton tried to relax and keep his mind clear. He calmed himself by reminding himself that Frank was as well prepared as he could be.

With William's threat hanging over the household, his elder son took on one of the full scholarship offered by an Ivy League College. Two years ago, Frank graduated with a double degree in criminal psychology and IT security. Frank also made good use of his father's industry contacts to work as a part-time research assistant for a well-known criminal profiler specializing in serial killers, gaining valuable experience and insights along the way. Now, his twenty-five year old son was a full-time rookie homicide detective with the Bayport Police Department, and was also its unofficial criminal profiler.

Yes, Frank had prepared himself best he could. Yet who could truly be prepared for what the likes of the Kemptons had to offer?

"It's two buildings down from this one. My men have already cleared half of the lower floors and the basement. All potential exits are being watched. If the Kemptons are on the upper floors, they won't be getting away this time," Chief Collig announced as he slowed his car to a stop.

Fenton followed Chief Collig towards the target building, keeping to the shadows just in case the Kemptons should choose to take a look out of any of the windows from above. Soon, that tall grey structure loomed before him.

"Status?" he asked Officer Con Riley the moment he rounded a corner saw the man coordinating the search from a partially camouflaged makeshift workstation.

"Still no audio or visual," Officer Con Riley answered tersely. "Ten more floors to go…"

Suddenly, a gunshot reverberated through the empty buildings and alleyways. There was a shocked yet enraged scream. An infinitesimally long second later, there was a loud dull thud.

The body landed on the ground not more than forty feet away.

Fenton rushed towards the broken body. His heart told him that was not Frank. But he still wanted… no needed the visual confirmation. The relief was intense: It was William's Kempton's sightless eyes that stared back at him.

-o-

Frank Hardy sat on the medical stretcher that was partially loaded onto the back of a paramedic van, quietly observing the action all the around him.

The police officers were busy trying to keep the curious crowd that suddenly appeared out of nowhere to gather around this normally secluded spot. Down the road, Officer Con Riley was hard-pressed to fend off several hard-nose reporters trying to sneak through the police cordon. To his left, a crime scene investigator was taking notes and photographs before collecting all the pieces of broken glass he could find. And right in front of him, a paramedic was treating the mild cuts and gashes on his leg.

The night wind blew. Frank shivered and snuggled into the soft blanket provided by the medics. The medic handed him a mug of warm tea. He accepted gratefully.

William's dead.

_One down and one more to go_, Frank thought without remorse.

As far as Frank Hardy was concerned, the fact that Andrew and William Kempton was still alive and out there somewhere was one of the reasons why God deemed it still unsafe for Joe to come home. Buried deep in an unacknowledged part of his mind, Frank knew he was not being rational. But he needed something to hang on to and live with.

"I'll track down Andrew down, Joe. Then it will be safe for you to come home… and you better come home bro, you better…" Or else? That was something Frank refused to consider for now.

An officer came over to take his statement. He kept quiet, as advised by his father and Chief Collig. He was not worried. The forensic evidence would reconstruct most of what happened up there on the top floor more effectively and objectively than his words.

It was an accident.

He had a witness on his side. Actually, she saved his life. That gutsy girl gave away her hiding place when she yelled out that William was behind him. But he would rather not use her if he could help it: She was young, barely twelve, and was taken to insure his 'good behavior'.

He closed his eyes and relived those last few tensed moments when he thought he misjudged William; that William was not going to play with him but kill him outright. He thought that he would not be able to keep his promise to his father, his mother, and most importantly, to Joe. William was enjoying himself with his scalpel making random jabs in the darkness. Frank could remember vividly the feel of every prick, nick, and cut. Then miraculously, he managed to break free. They fought. William tripped and fell over twenty floors onto the pavement below.

"Frank!"

His mom was running towards him with tears in her eyes. She looked so much frailer than her age; in part because of her missing Joe and hoping to see her little boy again on a daily basis, and in part because she never really fully recovered from being shot pointblank in the chest over six years back.

"I'm fine, Mom," he assured her, and let her hang on tightly to him.

To think he was that close to not seeing his mom, his family, again ever… that unwelcome thought suddenly intrude without warning. An image: the flash of the blade racing down in a silvery arc which he barely managed to block…

"I'm really fine…" he repeated, for his mom's benefit as much as for his own.

He lived.

He would live to see his brother back home again. He would live to see his mom and his dad happy again. He would…

Then he saw her standing there, just short distance away arms wrapped protectively around her, and tears shimmering in her eyes.

"Callie…" he murmured.

And he recalled that shocking revelation from William:

_"Let the girl go, William… you said a life for a life…"_

_William laughed wickedly shaking his head in mock sympathy. "If Callie lives, it will be two lives for two lives… or didn't you know your girl is pregnant?"_

Frank realized then that he should have known. Given Callie's strange behavior in the last two weeks, he should have suspected. After that fateful night, he really should have at least asked. But he was distracted, and he had made the one mistake any experienced investigator should never have made. He assumed.

"Do the right thing," his mom admonished him quietly before discreetly moving away, murmuring something about needing to have a word with his father.

_Did everyone know except him?_ Frank's guilty conscience wondered as his face flushed warm. He was glad for the cover of the night. And then Callie was there and in his arms.

"I'm so glad you're okay… I wouldn't know what to do if… if…" she sniffled. "I'd never forgive myself if anything was to happen to you…"

He let himself hold on to Callie for a moment before she disengaged herself, after being assured that he was really none worse for wear. For a moment, they simply stood close to each other, and yet awkwardly apart. Frank acknowledged a little sadly, it was his doing. First, he was first obsessed by the need to find Joe. Later he was consumed by his need to prepare himself for the confrontation with the Kemptons that he knew would come.

All those years, Callie waited patiently.

He reached out and touched her lightly on her cheek. Callie: the first girl he had a crush on, and the only girl he ever dated. Yet in the last six years, he tried his best to let her go. The Kemptons would use the lives of those he held dear as bargaining chips, he knew. But he never really could walk away from her. As a result, they sort of grew apart. Yet they grew closer through the years; Callie seemed to understand his needs, his fears, and the demons dogging his every step.

"I'm sorry…" he said even though he was not exactly certain what he was apologizing for, but he knew he owed her.

He eyes fell on his mom and dad, who were standing close some distance away, drawing strength and comfort from each other.

He was suddenly envious. It just occurred to him how lonely he was in the last six years despite being surrounded by family, friends, and Callie. He was alone because he chose to be. He was a marked man. He did not want to risk the lives of those he cared for.

_'I know what I was getting into when I married your father…'_ His mother's words echoed in his mind.

_'I know what I am getting into, Frank. And I am telling you: you're worth it…'_ Callie told him many times over.

That sudden desire to have what his parents had took him by surprise. Frank realized he did not really want to die never experiencing what his parents had.

He tightened his hold on the women he loved since he was seventeen. He loved her. There and then, he decided he would never let her go. Yes, he was being selfish. Andrew was still out there somewhere and would certainly want revenge for William's death. But he still wants Callie with him, for the rest of his life if she was willing.

"Cal… don't go…"

Callie did tell him just a week ago she was considering accepting a job offer from Santa Teresa where her cousins were. At that time, he had encouraged her to take on that job offer.

He stared down at Callie's still blond head, wondering what she was thinking. Why should she stay? Frank asked himself. His enemy would come for her, and he might not be able to keep her safe the next time. Then there was the baby to think of… no, not just a baby but his child…

His… he knew without a doubt.

Should he?

No… Dare he?

"Cal… Marry me?"

Those words were out of his mouth before he knew it. He could see that incongruous expression on her face, and wanted to bite his tongue. He felt like a bumbling buffoon. But it was too late to take those words back. Frank sighed inwardly. The only way now was to move forward. The last thing he wanted Callie to think was that he was making a frivolous statement.

He recalled Callie's long-ago teenage declarations on the 'perfect and romantic proposal'. He had no diamond ring and no roses at the moment. But the clouds were gone, blown away by the wind, and the stars were merrily winking down at him, as if enjoying his predicament. And he could still propose the gentlemanly way by getting down on his knees. Last but not least, he was always an eloquent speaker, if somewhat a little lacking in romantic talents.

He got down on his knees ignoring the people around them, placed a light kiss on the back of her palm, and simply… proposed.

"Callie, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

To say that she was stunned was an understatement. Callie had been waiting for a long time for Frank to say that he was ready to take their relationship to the next level. Marriage was not exactly what she was angling for at that point in time, but she hoped. Then her patience ran out and she decided to try seduction. She had no regrets. Who would have thought that such a disciplined logical mind could conceal such wild unbridled passion? It was then she thought she could wait forever for Frank.

Then she missed her period.

When she confirmed her fears with two take home pregnancy test kits, it took her a while to figure out what to do next. She did not want to force Frank into a decision that was clearly her fault to start with. In the end, she decided to join her cousins in Santa Teresa.

Now, Frank proposed. Behind a paramedic van in the middle of a dusty alleyway, surrounded by tall shadowy half completed skyscrapers… It was somehow just very… appropriately Frank Hardy, Callie decided.

"Cal… please…"

That soft tone barely concealed the underlying urgency. The fear and worry in those familiar brown eyes were unmistakable.

Callie recalled when she met Frank for the first time, when he literally knocked her off her feet. When he helped her up, all she could see were those intelligent chocolate brown eyes. That was also her first day in Bayport High.

Did he know? Callie suddenly wondered. The last thing she wanted from Frank was for him to 'do the right thing'. She stared into his eyes, wanting to see if he knew. The maelstrom of emotions in those brown depths took her by surprise. For the first time, those familiar brown eyes were truly the windows into Frank's soul. His love for her was undeniable.

She opened her mouth to answer but Frank's finger to her lips silenced her.

"You don't have to answer me now… take some time to think about it… as a matter of fact, it is only logical that you should think seriously about…" he said.

"Frank, I…"

"No, you don't have to tell me now… tomorrow. Think about it tonight. Tell me tomorrow. It's Valentine's Day. I'll pick you up at six. I'll make sure everything is properly done tomorrow. The rose, the ring… everything… It will be perfect…" Frank promised fervently.

Her poor man was really nervous. Just like what her mother told her about the moment her father proposed so many years ago. If Frank wanted to do the works, she would not spoil it, even though she now felt that all the frills were totally unnecessary.

She returned a shy smile, and nodded.

Frank's eyes darkened and again she glimpsed that raw passion she tasted only once, but already had her addicted.

"Tomorrow…" she agreed most reluctantly.


	14. Chapter 12

This Chapter is not pertinent to this story but is a requested addition. Please proceed to next chapter directly, unless, well, read explanation below.

_I'm sorry this took a while. For some reason, my muse just decided to go on strike. Guess penning a non-related piece sort of helps, so here's the next bit. This is written as a gift, and as such, I wrote this chapter because it was requested. Sadly, I suck at fluff and romance. Next chapter we head back to Andrew's plotting, and things should be back to action again._

_Tukkie: sorry I just can't make the fluff work. This is the best I could do it. Bollywood dancing round the tree just don't gel no matter how many times I tried. At least I managed to give Joe Vanessa, as you requested. Hope that's enough.  
_

_Thanks all of you who reviewed and who added this to the alert list. I will try to speed up a little. Cheers._

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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Twelve**

-o-

The man in the mirror has shoulder-length wavy blond hair currently neatly tied back into a bushy ponytail that nestled comfortably against his nape of his neck. He was dressed in a black long sleeve woolen turtleneck top and a pair of comfy dark blue Levi jeans. A pale jagged scar, now barely visible, slashed across his left temple. With his piercing deep blue eyes, he appeared hard and forbidding. While many told him they were drawn to the unusual shade of blue that was his eyes, few could hold his gaze for long. That was when he knew, they were drawn not by the 'blue', but by the 'deep and dark' shadows emanating from the depths of his soul.

That man in the mirror was me. Yet he was not.

I lifted my fingers and lightly traced that fading scar on my reflection. Scars fade over time, reality never fades.

_Their _blood flowed in my veins. That was an undeniable fact. I willfully chose to believe that I took over my biological mother. I would not forget how she died. Those blue eyes in those last few minutes of her life still haunt my dreams and waking hours. My mother never blamed me for causing her death. I knew that to be true, because she became my guardian angel. She helped me escaped their clutches. And on every clear day, I would gaze up into the blue skies, and see her up there, that wisp of cloud, watching over me.

"You are Joe Black now," I told that man in the mirror.

My mother died to gift me with this second chance at a normal life. I would live this life she gifted me to the fullest. My one regret was that I could never remember _their_ faces and names no matter how hard I tried. If I could remember, I would see justice done, so that the dead could rest in peace.

"I am Joe Black," I repeated.

The Blacks legally adopted me just over five years back. I accepted, and never look back. To do so would be a betrayal of my mother's death, as well as the love and kindness my adoptive family extended to me.

Six years ago, Michelle and Michael Black found a very sick and badly injured youth cowering in their rented cabin when they were having a quiet family vacation in The Smokies. They nursed him back to life, and kept him safe, even though they had no reason to.

They took me in, and gave me a loving normal family life that I never thought I deserve.

Was my adoption really legal? That was a good question. Thanks to a 'grandfather' whom I could not, and would never publicly acknowledge for good reason, I was given a new identity. Suffice to say, Michael's 'dead' father, Myles, was the doctor who saved my life. Myles was the one who, through his connections, procured all the necessary documents proclaiming my new identity backed by a believable history. All the papers were issued and authenticated by the relevant government departments. My adoption was as legal as it could be.

"I have a normal family now… My future is what I make it out to be…"

Michelle, like my biological mother, was patient and kind. It was her gentleness and her never dying zest for life despite her own precarious state of health that slowly drew me back into the land of the living. She fought hard for me to live again, and likewise I fought my way out of the shadows to help her battle against cancer. Eventually, we both won, together.

Would you believe that Michael, my adoptive father, attended every single game I played at college? We lost most of our games, but every time I looked up, he was always there cheering for me. He accepted my intense dislike of Mathematics and encouraged me to pursue my love of doodling. I worked hard and made my way into a prestigious Arts Institute in Washington DC, where I recently graduated with honors in Arts and Philosophy.

It was my father who first encouraged me to publish my works. 'If you never try, you never know,' he said. The publisher accepted it after some minor edits, much to my surprise and pleasure. That was how I managed to have two professionally published comics strips even before I graduated. Now I worked freelance from home, having recently signed on a 12 month project for Marvel Comics.

As I recalled those happy memories, the hardness on the face melted away. The reflection in the mirror was now of a much younger man. One who recently graduated, who was ready and eager to see what the world has to offer.

"And a beautiful, feisty woman…" I added with a slightly goofy smile.

It all started with an email from her commenting on my artistic style. I responded and we ended up exchanging pointers on each other's works on a regular basis. Six months ago, we met up at an art conference in New York City. We started calling each other, and before we knew it, we were chatting every night. Both of us had a dark past, and we recognized the influence of that past in each other's works. I have always wanted to move our relationship to the next level, but for the fact that we lived in different states. I knew she would never leave her mother and relocate. I understood, because I could not for similar reasons.

But circumstances have changed.

Several light raps on the door interrupted my musings.

"Come in, Mom," I knew it was her.

She rolled in on the wheelchair I custom built for her. For some reason, I was real handy with electronic hardware, though I have no idea where I mastered those skills from.

"My boy's growing more handsome every day. Black suits you," she said. "But you should try other colors some time…"

Half my wardrobe was black, and the rest were varying shades of the darker end of blue, brown and green. Most of my artworks are 'dark' too, both in the literal and the figurative sense. That darkness attracted a certain following.

"Some other time…" I said as I leaned down and kissed her lightly on her pale cheeks.

Sadness came over me. Just months ago, those cheeks were rosy with health.

"Come," Mom bade me to sit down on my bed next to her.

I did not remember her ever sounding so serious. It was then I noted that beautifully carved wooden lacquered box on her lap.

"This belongs to my mother, and to my grandmother…" Mom said quietly as she removed an ancient looking silver bracelet covered with intricate Celtic designs from the box. "It was said to be a protective charm of sorts. This bracelet has always been passed from daughter to daughter. Since I do not have a daughter, perhaps one day…"

"You can gift this to your granddaughter yourself, Mom," I cut in. "And then you can tell her all those wonderful stories you told me…"

"Joe… you know…"

"I know what the doctors said," I interrupted again, but this time, my tone was perhaps harsher than I expected. "They were wrong six years ago, and they are wrong again now."

I simply refused to believe that Mom could not beat those cancerous cells again. I was not ready to lose her. Not now, not again, not ever.

"This is the engagement ring your father gave me many years ago," Mom simply moved on to the next item on her agenda. "It is the same ring your grandfather gave to your grandmother another generation back. We'll be honored if you carry on the family traditions."

I looked down at the gold ring, clearly a family heirloom, now nestling on my palm. The two carat square-cut yellow diamond gleamed softly in the light.

"I would be honored to, Mom." Indeed, it was I who was honored.

Mom smiled, clearly contented.

Another sharp rap on the door and a familiar voice boomed. "Can I come in or am I going to be interrupting a conspiracy in the making?"

"We're in the midst of an evil plan to take over the world, dear. You're welcome to join us if you have the stomach for it," Mom returned.

My father walked in wagging his bushy eyebrows and rubbing his hands gleefully in the most evil fashion, asking who he'd get to eliminate first. We laughed. That's my family.

"How did the TV interview go, Mike?" I asked.

'Mike'. That was one of my regrets. I could not bring myself to call him 'Dad'. That word always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He did not seem to mind, and suggested I call him 'Mike'. But I know, sometimes, he wished.

"You mean interrogation," he grimaced.

Mike hated publicity. He considered it an intrusion into his private life. Yet he could not avoid the need to give one every now and then. He was a writer, and merely a fairly successful one, according to him. He had several works published, all of which made it to the top-20 best-seller list on the New York Times. This was the first television interview he ever agreed to – after years of incessant pestering from his PR manager.

"Some photographer managed to snap a family shot and the network broadcast that during the interview this morning," Mike suddenly said in a quiet tone. "The quality's a little grainy, but… perhaps it's a good thing we're moving after all…"

The tension in the room raises a notch. Mom suddenly looked worried – for me. They knew I could not remember what my murderous 'Dad' and brother looked like. But the same could not be said for the other way round. If they knew I am still alive?

I forced a smile and said. "They believed me dead for six years. I doubt if they would even recognized me if they were to walk pass me on the streets."

"Still… be careful," Mike cautioned.

"I will. I remember all those self-defense lessons and still practice on a daily basis," I reminded them.

My parents had hired a personal instructor, former Israeli soldier and Krav Maga expert, Simon Leron, to train me in the arts of self-defense.

Poor Mom still looked unconvinced, but Mike seemed satisfied.

To break the somber mood, Mike announced: "It's almost six. What say we hie down to Pogo's for a classic Italian dinner?"

Mom shook her head and laugh. "Dear, didn't you notice how well-dressed our son is?"

"Ah…"

"It's the same girl our son's been chatting to every night for the last few months. And she flew in here just to attend our son's first art exhibition…" Mom supplied helpfully.

"AH…" Mike repeated in a louder voice, but this time, his eyes gleamed a little wickedly. "The condoms are in the…"

"Mike!"

"I'd better get going," I said hastily before Mike could continue further down that road labeled 'men and dogs only'.

"Have a good time," Mom called out as I reached for my black leather jacket and the bouquet of roses I bought earlier.

"And don't bother trying to come home before midnight," Mike yelled after me. "Not unless you are in need of lessons from the Karma Sutra..."

Poor Mom turned red as beetroot; though there was this gleam in her eyes I had not seen in a while. In truth, I doubt if Mom and Mike even noticed when I left the house.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of the door to her hotel room. With her high heeled black leather boots, she stood as tall as I am. Like me, she favored black. Her ash blonde hair falls over her face in gentle waves framing those stormy blue grey eyes. Eyes that I knew could turn from stormy to smoky with passion in an instant.

We had our first Valentine's dinner at La Chaumiere, a very cozy and romantically French restaurant. It cost me a small fortune, but it was worth every cent I spent. There, we discussed the different artistic styles and their suitability for the comic strip she was currently working on. Two hours later, we were walking quietly hand in hand down a secluded section of the Potomac River, enjoying the tranquility and the reflection of the full moon on the still waters.

And that luminescent Australian black opal pendant I bought was still with me.

As much as I longed for a normal future with a loving wife and many, many kids, a part of me still held back. There was a part of me still lost in the past. What if that past came back for me? Would I end up harming her by dragging her into my world? With that, my desire for a normal future got stuck in a very uncomfortable lump in my throat.

Meanwhile, that shimmering black opal in its velvet pouch sat snuggly next to that old velvet box from my Mom at the bottom of my breast-pocket.

-o-o-0-o-o-

The dinner was fantastic. The walk was lovely. They held hands and simply enjoyed the gentle caress of the night breeze taking in the tranquil surroundings. The light of the full moon shone bright and clear. The setting was classically romantic in every sense of the word.

Yet young lady in question could not help but to feel more and more disappointed as the minutes passed. She had been so certain...

"Van…?"

'Perhaps he's going to ask now!' Vanessa Bender thought excitedly as she turned her hopeful eyes on the rather rugged young man and fellow artist whom she had fallen for. She saw that look in the eyes, her breath caught in her throat.

Something flickered in his eyes for the tiniest fraction of a second. The silence dragged, and then that moment was lost.

It was all Vanessa could do not to show her frustration. After all, a girl does have her pride. And perhaps she had misread the situation.

She sneaked a peak at her man. He was still staring into the shimmering dark waters. In the light of the full moon, those expressive blue eyes that had first drawn her interest were darker and more intense than she ever remembered.

"Joe…" Vanessa did not know why she whispered.

He turned around. Their eyes met, and held. The darkness, she knew and was familiar with. It was always there with him, just like it was always there with her. That was why they were kindred spirits. Somewhere in their past, they both went through something really bad, something that no normal kids should ever had to experience. But they did. They walked, possibly even crawled, out of that alive, but they were not unscarred. That fact alone spelt caution when it comes to either one of them considering a potential long term relationship.

'How much do you want this man?' Vanessa asked silently. 'Very much,' she acknowledged. Then again, she barely knew him! Some might say they knew each other for more than half a year. Sure, six months of nightly chats plus three almost clandestine meetings at the various art exhibitions could hardly constitute getting to know anyone really well, much less someone you want to consider spending a lifetime with.

'A lifetime? Was she really considering a lifetime?' Vanessa mused, slightly surprised by that revelation.

"Van… I…"

She noted that Joe's voice again tapered off into silence. His fists were tightly clenched by his sides, and she could see the tension in his jaw-line. It was then she knew what he wanted, but hesitated to ask. She knew, because she had gone through the same process herself each time she considered a potential relationship.

She took another good long look at him, the first guy she felt totally comfortable with. It was at that point that all reason flew out of the window. What those damned statistics said about those from abused families were likely to end up abusing their own children became totally meaningless. Those were only numbers. She knew in her heart she would love her own kids and would never hurt them. And neither would this young man standing in front of her. There was no logic to back her beliefs, only a deep seated gut instinct and she and Joe were meant to be, that they would beat the demons haunting their past. They would carve their own future. And she had always trusted her gut instincts.

A song started playing at the back of her mind. Suddenly, she knew exactly what to do. Her next move was made on impulse, driven by a sense of absolute certainty she never felt before in her life.

She reached out to him, and drew him into her embrace. Her eyes never left his as she made her request in a firm and steady voice. "Let me be your hero."

She was at that moment, a woman who knows what she wanted and was determined to get it. She watched as his eyes widened a little in surprise. She smiled back, willing him to allow her this lead as she nudged him gently into a simple dance. Her heart soared as he followed, his eyes reflecting curiosity and the first inkling of passionate desire.

"_Would you dance, if I asked you to dance?_" She crooned that ballad by Enrique Inglesias. "Or… _Would you run, and never look back?_"

'Don't you dare run!' Her stormy eyes warned.

'What? From a pretty woman?' His eyes seemed to say as a roguish smile appeared on his face.

"_Would you cry, if you saw me cry? And would you save my soul, tonight?_"

Vanessa willed him to hear her heart's belief. 'You know we can save each other's soul…'

"_Would you tremble, if I touched your lips?_"

It was hers own trembling fingers that reached up to touch his lips. He nibbled lightly on them, causing a shiver up her spine.

"Or… _Would you laugh? Oh please tell me this…_"

She rested her head against his broad shoulders, and leaned into his muscular chest. He took over the lead of the dance, as she expected. He did not laugh.

"_Now would you die, for the one you loved?_"

That was a question she need never ask. But it was part of the song. Once, she watched with her heart in her throat as Joe moved at lightning speed to save a child from being run down by a car with utter disregard for his own personal safety. In her heart, she knew the kind of person Joe is.

"_Hold me in your arms, tonight…_"

Joe's arms moved, and she found herself held tight in his embrace. She could hear him whispering, telling her he loved her and would protect her with his life. For a short moment, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the love and security provided in his embrace. Then came the chorus. That she sang with her eyes firmly affixed to his. She meant every single word from the bottom of her heart.

"_I can be your hero, baby. I can kiss away the pain. I will stand by you forever… You can take my breath away_."

Then it was him who was kissing away the pain of her childhood. Hopefully, she did the same for whatever demons that was haunting him. It was a long while before they broke off that kiss. And when Vanessa looked into his eyes again, she knew, she won. A finger prevented her from continuing the song. Instead, he drew her back into his arms and guided her across the grass.

"Never say I turn down a dance offer from a lady…" he whispered huskily. "And I would never run away from a beautiful woman…"

"You never told me you know the Waltz…" she said breathlessly.

"Mom insisted every gentleman should know the waltz…" He told her before spinning her off, then pulling her back into his arms again.

"_Would you swear, that you'll always be mine?_"

To Vanessa's surprise, it was Joe who continued the song.

She leaned more firmly into Joe's embrace, arched back so she coulded whisper back into his ears. "Yes, I'll always be yours."

"_Or would you lie? Would you run and hide?_"

"Never," she answered.

"_Am I in too deep? Have I lost my mind?_"

Vanessa just had to smile at the way he was shaking his head down at her mockingly.

"Yes," she answered in a teasing tone. "I've ensorcelled you…"

"_I don't care... You're here tonight._"

With that, Joe grabbed her and lifted her up into the air. She lifted her arms and reached up and out to embrace the night skies, her face upturned to catch the light of all those twinkling stars. They laughed in sheer joy when Joe over-balanced and they both tumbled down onto the grass. Joe had of course twisted his body around to take the full impact of the fall.

"_I can be your hero, baby. I can kiss away the pain. I will stand by you forever. You can take my breath away._"

"Mmmmm…. I didn't know that you are such a good singer…" Vanessa gasped in between the kisses as the final lines of the chorus faded away. Joe's voice and ability to hold the tune was another something she learnt today.

"I'm a man of many talents, love."

Vanessa giggled at Joe's unsuccessful attempt to project an air of exaggerated mystery.

"Ego… big fat swollen ego…" she said.

"But you still love me…"

"Do I?"

"Van!"

It did not take long for the exchange and the squeals of laughter to fade away into whispers of sweet nothings. That was where they spent the night. On the grass on the banks of that secluded stretch of river that had seen much of America's history, snuggling and cuddling. Much later into the night, they had a series of serious discussions. They talked about their past and their fears. Then they talk about their hopes and their dreams. Finally, they talked children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. Before they knew it, the skies lightened from black to grey, and from grey to a splash of pastel pink.

So engrossed were they in each other, neither noted the pair of brittle brown eyes that followed them as they strolled back to the parking eyes did not miss that faint gleam of a square-cut diamond on the young lady's finger.

-o-

Copyright of song 'Hero' - By Enrique Inglesias


	15. Chapter 12b

_Okay, we're back to the story line after some modifications to fit in the requested romance. I'm still not totally happy with this chapter, but posted it anyway because if I don't, I might not be able to finish it before my baby's due. Still, I'm happier with this than the previous chapter. And Andrew finally makes his move - I hope you would enjoy this chapter. Please let me know what you think - please? Hopefully, the future chaps would get better as I get the hang of writing back again. (prays)_

_Don't worry, I'm not dragging this out. As a matter of fact, the whole Andrew incident would be over in a few days' of story time. Its going to be sort of "action" all the way._

_Tukkie: sorry - I cannot write, even a stupid scene of Joe and Vanessa running round and round a tree just for fun because I simply cannot envision it._

_Note: I still put this as chapter 12 because this is chapter 12. The previous chapter was a request and not really necessary to this story. Thanks for reading anyway._

_Thanks Chromde and franknjoe for being nice. I'm glad my attempted fluff was not a total flop.  
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_please enjoy, cheers.  
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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Twelve**

-o-

In the airy and spacious living room of a rather brightly decorated two bed-room apartment, Frank Hardy was struggling to rein in his irritation as he glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time. It was almost noon! That girl was late as usual. He knew she was going to be late. But this time, she was almost two hours late. Two hours! That's ridiculous!

Still, there's no point feeling annoyed since the object of his irritation happened to be Callie's house mate and best friend. And there's no point complaining to Callie since she would only smile apologetically and gently remind him that her best friend was putting together a surprise wedding gift for them, including an afternoon of studio wedding photo shots.

The thought of his upcoming wedding brought out a smile. He had officially proposed two weeks ago on Valentine's Day. She accepted, as she always said she would. They would be speaking their vows in two weeks, on March 14th. Frank could not wait for the day when they would officially be man and wife. A surprisingly irrational part of him was still worried she might come to her senses and disappeared off to a safer part of the world without him. And of course Callie insisted on getting the wedding done as soon as possible before her pregnancy started to show. He wondered how she would look in her wedding finery, and then realized that was irrelevant since Callie would always be beautiful to him no matter what she wears. And he was sure her child would be beautiful too…

The image of what his future family and home might be only served to strengthen his resolve to provide a future as safe and as secure as he could make it. He turned his attention back to his case notes. He knew Callie was not too happy he brought his work with him today. He recalled a little guiltily that he had promised her that February 28th would be dedicated to all things wedding. Frank could only be glad she did not hold him to his word. Especially given what just happened in Bayport.

Three highly unusual yet seemingly unrelated homicides over the last week had the entire Bayport PD on high alert. The details of all three cases were kept from the public, but it was believed that a serial might be on the loose. There were no evidence or suggestions of any sort linking all three homicides to Andrew Kempton, but Frank thought it was better to be safe than sorry. He kept Kempton high on his suspect list. His only consolation was the fact that his father and Sam Radley were also working on the case. Like him, and unlike the rest of the BPD staff, they kept the Kempton possibility wide open. Then again, Chief Sean Freeman was right to point out that Kempton was the type who would take his time to plot and plan. On the other hand, his father was also right to say that one could never presume to know how a psycho thinks. Again he scanned his files, hoping for some breakthroughs.

A joyous tune sung by a familiar sweet voice drew his attention a short while later. He looked up, rubbed his bleary eyes, and spent the next few moments simply enjoying the sight of his fiancé flitting about the apartment like a butterfly, cleaning and packing her belongings into boxes. He could only be grateful that Callie had agreed to move into his home at the corner of Elm Street with his parents. Most women he knew would not agree to that. But Callie understood. They all need to be there when Joe comes home.

Callie was certainly high-spirited today. He could not resist the temptation. The next time Callie flitted pass him, he reached out and snagged her onto his lap for a spontaneous kissing session. They had been in the same apartment for the whole morning, yet he missed her already!

"If I didn't know better, I would have thought you are more excited about meeting your housemate's mysterious boyfriend than planning for our upcoming wedding," he teased – Callie had been rattling on and on about that mysterious boyfriend for a good part of the week by now.

"Of course I am!" Callie exclaimed rather mischievously. "Van said he's a handsomer and wittier version of you, into solving crimes without having to risk his life chasing after real life criminals. I really have to have a look at that before tying myself down for good!"

"Cal…"

"Van's my best friend, Frank," Callie rushed to add when she realized she had unintentionally hit one of Frank's sore spots. "You know part of her past and why she is the way she is. She never lets any guy gets close to her. This is the first guy she was interested in, her first boyfriend in all the years I know her. Of course I am both curious and excited about him!"

"She didn't tell you much about him, and she could have at least shown you a photograph," Frank pointed out logically.

As best friends go, Frank never really understood the relationship between Callie and Vanessa Bender. Vanessa was… the most generous term he could use to describe her was "interesting". Her preferred color was black, her style of fashion 'gothic', her use of makeup was atrocious, and she had a way of getting on his nerves. No doubt she was a brilliant artist, but her works were far to 'weird', not to mention 'dark' for his tastes. And she carried a butterfly knife on her. Once, she had that knife held right next to his jugular at a speed that took him by surprised. But he would never forget that terror and rage burning from those stormy blue-grey depths. That was the first time he felt something, some sort of a connection to her. It did not last, simply because the very next moment, he really thought he was dead meat. Since that day he made sure she always had ample warning of his approaching presence. That girl was simply a dangerous and lethal accident waiting to happen. As a housemate, she loves her clutter. If not for Callie, Frank really did not want to imagine what this apartment would look like.

"She must have her reasons," Callie said simply.

She watched Frank rolled his eyes through her lashes. It was difficult to explain to Frank why she and Vanessa just hit off despite the vast differences in their personalities. She supposed it was a similar reasoning to why she loved Frank despite the dangers that comes with him. It's a package thing.

"I believed the fact that they lived in different states might be what held back the relationship," Callie tried to give an explanation. "Now that his family moved to Bayport…Apparently they were the mysterious buyers who purchased that old lighthouse on The Point at the end of Shore Road."

"His family must be pretty eccentric," Frank commented. "That crumbling old lighthouse had been unoccupied for ages because the heirs were squabbling over the inheritance."

That lighthouse brought back some happy memories. It stood at the heart of one of the very first cases he and Joe solved together leading to the exposure of a smuggling operation and the arrests of the smugglers.

"And they must have valued their privacy," Callie added. "Because their nearest neighbor would be at least a mile away."

Frank nodded. He supposed an 'eccentric' boyfriend would suit an 'interesting' girl like Vanessa. Whoever he was, that man is brave, Frank would give him that much. And good luck to that poor guy, whoever he was.

"Frank… I know you think Van's a little 'weird' at times," Callie started hesitantly.

'Weird' was an understatement, Frank thought as he recalled the few times he tried to match-make Vanessa with a number of his colleagues from the Bayport PD at Callie's behest.

"Van's really a nice person… if you let yourself get to know the 'real' her."

Frank arched his brow. Vanessa, after all, managed to scare away every single police officer he introduced to her. And every single one of them was used to handling rough and tough gangsters on a daily basis – like Tommy.

"You don't like her," Callie finally stated as she noted the expression on Frank's face.

"She doesn't like me," Frank corrected his fiancé – Vanessa always looked at him as if he was… never mind – its enough to say trading words with one Vanessa Bender could be real bad for a man's fragile ego.

There was some truth to that, Callie admitted a little sadly. And it was partly her fault. All those late night girl-talk about 'love' and 'heartbreak' over the years had convinced Vanessa that one Frank Hardy was responsible for her bouts of melancholy and repeated heartbreak over the last six years.

"She never showed you the 'real' her either," Callie said. "But try to be nice to her, okay? She's really running pulling favors and helping us make this wedding as perfect as possible given the limited timeframe…"

Frank sighed. He knew. Callie always said Vanessa would go the extra mile for her friends, and that she would never leave a friend out to dry, even at the risk of her own life. Once, she stayed to save Callie from being raped, even when she could have run and saved herself. But she saved Callie, severely injured the two thugs, and suffered two cracked ribs and a broken arm. He was immensely grateful to her. But it did not change his opinion that she needed more counseling to better manage the shadows of her past, especially her rather low opinion of the male population in general.

"I will try to be nicer to her, and I will refrain from making my usual sarcastic comments no matter what she says," he promised Callie with an internal grimace - what a man would do to his ego for the sake of his beloved…

Suddenly, the door burst open and in swept Vanessa in all her usual gothic grandeur. Except for the fact she did not look all that 'gothic' today. The new boyfriend must have been a positive influence, Frank decided.

"So sorry I'm late, Cal," Vanessa gushed out cheerfully. "We just got a number of last minute errands… But Callie darling, you're going to love what we got you!"

Then her tone turned a little frostier, her smile actually chilling, as she turned to him. "Hiya Frank. I've expended a lot of efforts getting things together for Cal's sake. So if you are planning to play the runaway groom, let me assure you there is no hole in this world deep enough for you to hide in."

"Van!" Callie sounded mortified.

But Vanessa simply waved her best friend aside without giving her a chance to respond and bore straight down on me. From that look in her stormy blue-grey eyes, Frank wondered if he should simply hide behind Callie's skirts until the storm blew over.

"Callie's my best friend, and the closest to a sister I ever have," Vanessa began in a slow deliberate tone. "You dare hurt her again, and you have me to answer to, is that clear."

Frank simply acknowledged that statement. At least he could appreciate where Vanessa was coming from.

Then the threatening hardness melted away from Vanessa's face as she continued to admonish him in a gentler but no less firm tone. "Make her happy."

"I will. Make her happy," he promised honestly, and ever mindful of his earlier promise to Callie, he added politely. "And thank you for helping us out."

The next bit caught Frank off guard – as he found himself the recipient of a sisterly hug and a brilliant smile. "Truce, 'brother', and I promised you a wedding party to remember."

"Thank you," he was unsure as to what else to say. This 'new' Vanessa was not what he was used to.

"Everything's all planned. Just grabbed whatever items you want to include in your studio shots and meet us in the parking lot. There's only one van there, you can't miss it. And hurry, will ya? We're running late. We'll grab a quick lunch at Prat's Pasta before heading over to the studio. Our treat of course… you two just relax and enjoy your day."

And then she was gone, just like a gust of whirlwind.

"Well," Callie said after a moment of silence. "I've got what we need packed here. Shall we go?"

Frank nodded as he piled his casefiles into his backpack, slug it over his shoulder, and grabbed the little luggage at Callie's feet. They locked the door to the apartment, and headed, hand in hand towards the parking lot.

It was Callie who first saw him. He was too busy admiring her happy face and fighting the temptation to draw her in for another kissing session.

A sharp gasp from her drew his attention. That was followed by a painfully tight grip on his arm, but by then he barely noticed the pain. His eyes were fixed on the young couple leaning against the side of a black van locked passionately in each other's embrace a mere hundred feet away from them.

"Frank…" Callie squeaked. "Is that… is that…"

Frank could barely find the voice to answer. "Yes…"

After six long years, his brother, Joe, has finally come home to Bayport.

It did not matter that Joe clearly has yet to remember who he was. In Frank's opinion, he was back, and the rest would soon fall in place. Frank Hardy held Callie tighter to his side, thanking God for keeping Joe safe, and thanking Callie for having someone like Vanessa as her best friend.

He blinked away his tears as his joyously shell-shocked mind worked at a hundred miles per hour trying to decide on how to welcome his brother home again. In the end, his brilliant mind failed him. For the rest of the afternoon, he allowed himself to be led along, with his eyes fixed contentedly on his brother whenever possible.

And then, disaster strikes.

-o-o-0-o-o-

Callie might be Vanessa's best friend, but I swear the way she and her fiancé were staring at me was starting to freak me out. I wasn't kidding; even Vanessa was getting real uncomfortable.

'Sorry, No idea what got into them,' she mouthed when they were not watching. 'Wedding jitters?'

'Maybe. I'm okay,' I mouthed back just to reassure her.

But I stuck close to Van the entire afternoon. I really did not want to spend too much time one on one with either Frank or Callie. I really felt downright uncomfortable around them, especially Frank. Part of the reason could be due to the fact that I was never comfortable about the name 'Frank'. It was a name I instinctively disliked. Yet there was a familiarity about this 'Frank' that drew me towards him. So much so I was obliged to explain to him: "No offense to you, but I just do not like the name 'Frank'."

"I understand," was all he said.

I looked into his eyes and saw something close to sympathy. No, not sympathy… Was that pain or was that empathy? It was as if he knew something about me I don't. It was as if he knew why I did not like that name. It was just all too spooky.

After a somewhat tensed lunch, I drove them up the place my parents bought, that old lighthouse on The Point. Needless to say, I loved that crumbly building. There was a sense of déjà vu the first time I saw it. It was as if I was here running around those rotting ramparts as a child in another lifetime.

"Van, can you show them to my studio? I need to check up on Mom."

Vanessa knew where my studio was. She helped me transformed that little cottage storeroom a short distance from the main house into my professional workspace. And we spent the last two days rigging it up for today's photo session.

She nodded, and I was glad for that breathing space away from those two. The emotional tension was just about unbearable.

Mom, according to our live-in-nurse-cum-housekeeper Maria, was taking her afternoon nap after a light lunch. I went in anyway, if only to tuck the covers more comfortably around her. Was that my fears or has she lost several more pounds over the last two weeks? I wrote a little note and left it by the side of the bed where she could see when she woke up. Mike, Maria informed me, had gone out for groceries.

The photo session turned out much better than I expected. Callie, as Vanessa expected, was totally blown over by the fact that we managed to loan the Vera Wang creation she had been eyeing for the last two years for the photo session today, and for her wedding day. And of course when we told her that we managed to book The Chjimes for her wedding day…

The Chjimes was one of the most popular venues for a spring wedding. Callie was naturally ecstatic. From that moment on, her focus returned fully to the wedding preparations. Soon we were discussing the various décor, floral arrangements and meal plans as if we were old friends. The necessary decisions were made swiftly, thanks to Frank. The girls would have taken forever. The photo session turned out better than expected; both the bride-to-be and groom-to-be photographed well.

I and Vanessa were busy snapping away when we were rudely interrupted by someone banging loudly at the door. It was Maria, who burst in with hair flying, panicky eyes and arms gesticulating wildly. I could barely make out what she was saying…

"… Police … found dead body … arresting your father for murder … your mother…"

I dropped my expensive Leica camera and ran.

By the time I reached the main house, more police cars and a paramedic van were already quietly turning into our newly repaired driveway. I ignored the few police officers combing the front yard and taking pictures. Instead, I headed straight for the living room, where I was certain where everyone were gathered.

"What's happening here," I demanded in a loud clear voice the moment I stepped into the room. "And do you even have a warrant to search these premises?!"

Since I helped Mike research for his crime and mystery novels, I do have a good knowledge of criminal and legal procedures.

All faces turned towards me. There were several sharp gasps. It took a moment for me to realize that one of those was from me. One of the older men was suddenly standing in front of me, reaching out for me, staring at me with such emotional intensity…

"Joe…"

In an instant, my world shifted. I instinctively jumped backwards, avoiding that stranger's arms. Except I wasn't sure if he was truly a stranger to me. Those brown eyes were somehow familiar to me. I was drawn to them just as my gut instinct screamed at me to be wary.

"What's going on," I demanded again.

This time, my voice was harsher, perhaps even trembling slightly. I moved away from that man and nearer to my Mom. She hung on to me for strength and support. I let her. Or so I preferred to think. It could easily be the other way round.

"Michael Black is the prime suspect for a series of murders that took place in Bayport recently…" one of the officers in the room tried to explain in an official tone, even though he looked almost constipated.

"They found a body. Female. In the trunk of my car," I heard Mike saying in a calm tight voice as if from a distance.

That brown eyed man in his fifties was still staring at me. It was at moment that Frank walked into the room, closely followed by Callie and Vanessa. I paled the moment I put the two and two together.

"Your name!" I demanded to know, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Fenton…"

I did not bother to hear the rest. My head was close to exploding as forgotten memories rose to the fore. Fenton… and Frank… similar features… father and son…

Suddenly, I knew what happened. My past had caught up with me, and my adoptive family was about to pay the price for letting me be happy. They framed Mike…

"Why?" I hissed at Fenton. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

I think Mom heard me and knew instantly what I was talking about. After all, I kept no secrets from her.

She glared at Fenton. "You! It was you… You…"

But she never finished her sentence. Suddenly, she collapsed into a coughing fix and was soon coughing out blood.

"Mom!" I tried to help her while keeping the others off us, especially Frank and Fenton. No way was I going to let them get close to her. "Someone call the ambulance!" I screamed as I returned my attention back to my Mom. No, she can't die. Not now, when I needed her so…

Then Mike was shaking me, hard, and shouting into my ears "Joe… son… Son!"

I blinked through my tears and my fears.

"We will beat this, like we beat everything else, as a family," Mike said.

It was his calm and confident manner that gave me hope.

"Take care of your mother. Then get in touch with my lawyer. Get in touch with grandpa. We will play this game his way, and we will beat him at his game. But first, take care of your mother…"

Then the paramedics arrived.

"Go… I can take care of myself. I will be fine. They will not dare do anything in a public place like a police station. And not to someone like me…"

I wanted to refute that, but would not do it in front of Mom. And maybe Mike was right, it would be bad for Bayport PD to have a best-selling author like Michael Black die under mysterious circumstances while in their custody.

"Go… take care of your mother," Mike urged, pushing me after the paramedics and away from Fenton and Frank. "For me…"

I nodded through teary eyes. Mom was the love of Mike's life. And I, I was his son. I knew that now even more than before. He spared a thought for my safety even when he was in deep trouble because of me.

"Dad…" I called him. It was the only thing I could say to tell him that I really really am proud to be his son.

I could see the surprise in his eyes. I could also see his joy.

"Go, son," his reply was firm and grim.

"Dad… be careful…"

"I will. Now, just go…"

I left with Mom and the paramedics. But not before I turned and gave Fenton and Frank a look that promised retribution. I was no longer that teen they played with and tortured. And this time, they would not escape justice. Not when I have a family like Mom, Dad, Vanessa, and yes, Grandpa to protect, and to help...


	16. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13!_

_Thanks Chromde, blackwolf and memorygirl for letting me know you enjoyed the last chapter._

_I hope this will not disappoint._

_Do continue to leave a line, and hopefully my Muse will see this story done before my babe is due. Cheers  
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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Thirteen**

-o-

No one paid any notice to the old janitor who just shuffled out of the side exit of the Bayport Police Department. They should have. Not that they could have averted the tragedy that was already unfolding. But they might have averted tragedies that were to come.

To them, that old man was just another person sweeping the floor and emptying the bins leaving at the end of his shift. They had other bigger issues to handle, like the gathering of curious pedestrians and reporters slowly building up outside their main entry. Not to mention the havoc within.

Once that old janitor reached an old van parked at a quiet location a safe distance away from the police block, he discarded his disguise, throwing them carelessly over the pale white body of the real janitor. Then he left, all the while ensuring that he was not noticed and not followed.

Andrew Kempton had accomplished what he set out to do in the police station. It was such a simple thing, so simple no one would notice what was wrong until it was too late.

He was also quietly listening to what happened at the old lighthouse on the point while going through the motions of his supposed duties. No one saw that gleeful gleam in his feverish brown eyes. His first move actually turned out better than he expected, given the fact that he only spent two weeks hashing out the details. Then again, he expected the Hardys and those fancy profilers to assume that he would take his time to plot his perfect vengeance. That was why he could safely change his modus operandi. The ball had started rolling, and a series of unfortunate events were about to happen, each overtaking the other until all his enemies lay dead. That would be the justice he would take for his beloved son, William. Speed was the essence this time. His plans had their plot holes, but the speed of execution would work to cover those plot holes. No one would see those holes until they no longer mattered.

An ugly rage threatened to spill over was he recalled the moment he confirmed that Joseph was still alive. A rage so deep his head hurts as if someone thrust a red hot iron into his brains. That boy should have been dead! There was no way he should have lived, not after what he injected into that boy. Yet Joseph lived, while William died. Frank lived, but William died. That was just not fair!

And how dared Joseph be happy. That boy who refused the honor of becoming his son now called another couple his parents. He watched them from a distance; that happy family scene grated on him. They would all suffer for it. Joseph would know they would all die a painful death because of him. It had been an easy job, breaking into the psychiatrist's office to read Joseph's file. A person with a deep-seated anger and half remembered memories would be easy to manipulate. Especially when one strike him hard at the heart of what matters most to him.

First the Blacks, then the Hardys. And Joseph would be alone again, as he promised his replacement son so many years ago. Except this time, he won't be killing his ungrateful replacement son. Poor Joseph had no idea how valuable he now was. But Joseph would still have to suffer for his betrayal.

Andrew's smile turned almost beatific as he headed towards his future base of operations to start on the next phase of his vengeance. A part of that would be dependent on Joseph's reactions. Not that those reactions really mattered in the scheme of things. The only thing that mattered was that every body complicit in the death of William suffers before they die.

It was also true that as Andrew headed happily towards his destination, his mind still working on the details of his plotting, that he had no idea he was no longer just mentally sick. A very real and ugly tumor had started to grow, eating at and collapsing his once brilliant and meticulous mind. The consequences of that little change sadly created an even crazier and dangerous villain. One that was no longer capable of following the standard laws of logic or rationale in plotting, but had decades of experience to back his every insane thoughts.

-o-

The officers on evening shift at the usually quiet Bayport PD was certainly feeling hassled from without and within. Throngs of reporters were waiting at almost every entry and exit point ambushing any officers trying to get in or out, hoping for a newsworthy quote, if not an exclusive. Phones within the stations were ringing non-stop. Calls from concerned superiors, nosy media personnel, and even angry fans kept flowing one after another.

In a brightly lit interrogation room, Michael Black sat alone, but straight and proud. All he said was that he would not talk until he had his time with his lawyer, who was currently flying over on a private chartered plane from Washington DC. He asked to be accorded that right and respect according to the law, and he was. He asked to be kept updated on his wife's medical condition, and he was. All he requested for in the last hour was for a glass of water.

On the other end of the one way window, Fenton Hardy stood and watched. That was the man whom his long lost son called "Dad". That man had refused to speak to him beyond a simple threat: "You will not hurt my son again, or else." A part of him was glad that Joe found a family who obviously cared for him. Another part of him could not help but be a little envious at what he missed. His Joe had apparently done very well in the last six years. He could not help making a few calls and looking into Joe's last six years, now that he knew what he was looking for. Joe Black was one of the top artistic talents of his class, and even got nominated for the Eisner Award this year for one of his publications. He was proud of his Joe, but he was not the father who nurtured those talents. He was not the father who help guide his son through what must have been a hard and tough road to recovery.

Still all those confusing emotions would have to take a back seat for now. The priority was to figure out Kempton's games before his family and any more innocent bystanders got hurt. And he still had to figure out what to say and how to explain what happened to Laura.

Fenton stared down and reviewed the trail of evidence that lead them all to Michael's Black doorsteps. Evidence that he now knew with his heart was planted. Still, as the law goes, Michael Black was caught with the victim's body in his car, his letter-opener buried in her heart, exactly the way it was written in his novels. As a matter of fact, all four deaths were copycats of the murders from Michael Black's various crime and mystery novels. So as the law goes, he had to be arrested as a prime suspect. The courts would have to decide on the bail and the final verdict – unless the police could catch the real murderer in the mean time, or find overwhelming evidence that Black was framed.

"I've sent Callie and Vanessa home. Tommy's there with them, just in case."

Fenton turned around to see his elder son walk into the room.

"I also checked up on Joe at the hospital," Frank said. "Don't worry, he didn't see me. And Chief Collig left a plainclothes officer there to keep an eye on him."

"How's he?" Fenton wanted to know.

He had most reluctantly accompanied Chief Collig back to BPD at the Chief's insistence.

_"You'll make things worst if you follow Joe to the hospital,"_ was what Collig said quietly to him, and Fenton had to agree.

"Joe believed we were the Kemptons, that we framed his father…" Fenton had to admit that knowledge cuts him to the core, even though he knew why Joe might construe things that way.

"I know. That hurts," Frank admitted with equal gravity. "But he's back in Bayport, Dad. We clear up this mess, and we'll soon have him home with us."

Fenton could not help but feel a little uplifted at the confidence in Frank's voice. Yes, he should have looked on the bright side. Joe was back in Bayport. It would only be a matter of time before his son comes home again. Then that moment faded. They still had to get Kempton before that psycho could cause any more major troubles.

"What happened, Dad?" Frank asked. "How did Kempton manage to make Michael Black a prime suspect? We have to untangle this fast. For Joe's sake, as well as to stop the media circus out there from getting worse than it already is."

"Yea," Fenton agreed tiredly. "Or Joe would never forgive us if anything's to happen to Michael or Michelle…"

"No Dad," Frank corrected him. "Joe would never forgive himself if anything is to happen to Michael or Michelle Black. Especially once he remembered everything…"

And Fenton realized that Frank again was right. Joe would blame himself for anything bad that might happen to the Blacks even though every thing was Andrew Kempton's doing. And that kind of deep-seated guilt might never heal…

"We better get started…" Fenton heard Frank say. He nodded tiredly and was about to start briefing his son when a commotion caught both their attention.

A terrible sinking feeling went through both father and son the moment their minds registered what was happening. Michael Black was on the floor of the next room gasping for breath.

They rushed over.

Officer Murphy stood in a corner of the room, yelling through his handset for an ambulance.

"Some sort of a severe allergy reaction," Officer Con Riley said to them. "Officer Brown is getting the Epi-pen from the first aid kit."

Fenton tried to help, but his proximity only served to agitate Black further. He stepped back and helplessly watched Con Riley handle the famous writer. He could never forget that accusing expression from Michael Black's deep blue eyes. Those eyes ironically reminded him so much of Joe.

In the mean time, Frank examined the broken glass pieces after pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. He sniffed at it, and his heart sank.

"Peanut oil," he said.

Somehow, Kempton must have learned about Mr. Black's allergy to peanuts. And somehow, Kempton got into the police station to lace the glasses with peanut oil without anyone noticing.

"I'll get someone to go through all the internal video recordings now," Chief Collig promised in a grim voice.

All three exchanged grim expressions. Kempton was here and they all missed him.

Then Officer Brown returned with the blessed Epi-pen and proceeded to inject its contents into Michael Black.

For some reason, at that moment, an overwhelmingly bad feeling came over Frank, and he yelled 'stopped', but it was too late.

The deed was done and over with.

No one breathe, until it appeared that Mr. Black was recovering and everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

But that was only an illusionary recovery, the calm in the storm. Without warning, the attacked resumed, now worse than before. Within seconds, the best-selling author was foaming at his mouth and bleeding from his eyes and nose.

The epi-pen, that only epi-pen in the entire BPD, as Frank feared, had been tampered with. He turned his bleak eyes to his father. It seemed that things were rapidly going from bad to worse again. Andrew Kempton had again out-witted and out-paced them.

Officer Murphy resumed screaming into his handset for the ambulance that seemed to take forever to arrive.

"He'd stopped breathing!" Con yelled.

Around them, chaos reigned.

Frank rushed over to assist Con in performing CPR.

Outside the police station, the crowd grew even more restless at the realization that something was happening inside, away from their prying eyes.

Several minutes later, an ambulance was rushing to the nearest hospital, the same one that Michelle Black was, still fighting for her life.

That ambulance was followed by a number of police cars, sirens flashing and blaring loud and bright.

Seated in one of those cars, Frank and Fenton could only pray. Each wondered as an icy grip tightened its hold on their heart, how much worse things were going to get.

-o-o-0-o-o-

I sat outside the operating theatre with my head in between my knees, fighting a very real urge to be sick.

It was my fault. I choose their cabin to hide in six years ago. They were kind enough to take me in, adopt me, and give me a future I never thought I deserve.

The lights atop the operating room were still flashing.

I glanced out of the window. The skies were now dark. I glanced at the clock hanging at the far end of the corridor. It said seven pm. It was dinner time, but I wasn't hungry. I doubt if I could ever be hungry again.

Seven o'clock. My Mom's been in there for over an hour now. A terror rose in my heart – it was clear the doctors had no idea what was the problem.

I had a terrible feeling that she was going to die. Tonight. And all because she had the heart to care for a boy that was not worth caring for. I prayed like I never prayed before in my young life.

Please God, if you truly exist, take me instead. Not her. Not Mom. Not a wonderful woman like Michelle Black.

If God heard my pleas, He gave no indication.

The door opened. I stood up so abruptly, the chair I sat on toppled backwards.

Then I froze. I could tell from the doctor's eyes that it was going to be bad news. Then the doctor was speaking, but most of his words went over my head. His tone was so gentle, like an angel. It was so unreal.

But what he said was awfully real.

She's dead. Mom's dead.

But she can't be! The doctors all said that she had at least a few more months to go. They all agreed the sea air would so her good. That was why we moved to Bayport. And I was so certain those doctors were wrong. She beat those cancerous cells once before. She could do it again. Because Mom's a fighter, just like I am…

"No…" I whispered, shaking my head, and taking a few steps backward.

What was I to tell Dad? Dad told me to take care of Mom. No, Dad asked me to take care of Mom. It was the only thing he asked of me in the last six years, and I failed him.

I could feel the scalding tears on my cheeks as I turned my attention to that gurney at the end of that little corridor leading into the operating theatre. I took two steps towards it, only to find myself unable to move forward anymore.

I wanted to see Mom again. But seeing her body also meant that her death was final. I could not bear to do that…

But how, how did she die? She was still well this morning! What happened? What could possibly have happened?

It was then I saw the doctor quietly speaking to the plainclothes officer whom I know was keeping an eye on me and Mom. Shoving all my pain aside with every ounce of will-power I could master, I sneaked up behind those two and eavesdropped on them. I caught only one word, but that one word was enough to explain everything.

"… poisoned…" the doctor said.

_Poisoned… _

Of course, that was something my biological father was an expert in. I could still remember some of those nasty concoctions that he tested on me. I still shudder at the memory of some of those effects.

_Poisoned… _

Mom didn't die because of cancer. She was going to beat her cancer like she did six years ago. Mom was murdered. She was murdered. Pain and fury washed over me in equal measure, and I knew not which the dominant emotion was.

And Fenton Hardy was responsible. I will find a way to make him pay. Make Frank pay too… I would… it was the only way I could ever make up to Mom and Dad… Dad…

Dad!

If Fenton poisoned Mom, what about Dad? They were at the police station together! I raced towards the nearest phone, heart pounding. Would Dad be able to access his handphone? I wondered. Dad needed to be warned.

The phone booth was right there next to the A and E department.

I was desperately fumbling for coins in my pockets.

That was when I saw the parade of ambulance and police cars turning into the hospital driveway.

The phone receiver fell from my numb fingers.

And I knew who was in that ambulance. I just knew.

I was too late.

Fenton had acted, I knew.

I rushed towards the A and E entrance. I could see paramedics unloading the body from the ambulance and rushing the gurney down the corridor. I caught up with the gurney just as it was turning into the treatment rooms.

It was Dad…

"Dad!" I cried. "No… not you too…"

Dad never moved. I tried to feel for his pulse. There was none.

The paramedics pried me away from the gurney.

"Let the doctors do their jobs," they pleaded with me.

I let Dad go.

I watched the doctors from the glass partitions as they fought to bring Dad back to life. I watched them charged up that horrible machine again and again, hoping to shock the heart back into beating. I watched my Dad's body jerked so hard each time I was certain he would cracked a rib or two.

All the while I never stopped mumbling, pleading, begging. "Dad… please… come back. I need you…"

But I knew Dad was not coming back. Mom's gone. Dad would want to be with her.

The green line on the machine remained flat.

Finally, the doctors gave up.

And I was alone again.

I sank down onto the cold white hospital floors, hugging my knees curled into a fetal position, trying to deal with the pain I felt.

It was the pain of loss, the pain of loneliness, and the pain of overwhelming guilt all rolled into one.

A gentle hand touched me, and I looked up.

It was a kindly doctor trying to comfort me.

But I wasn't seeing or listening to the doctor.

Instead, I saw them. They were standing right there, just a few steps away from me.

They killed Mom and Dad.

And they were standing right here just a few steps from where I was.

I went berserk.

"You killed them… you killed them…" I screamed at them, eyes burning with tears and a fury I never remembered ever feeling. "I'll kill you…"

For a split second, that was all I had, I could feel Fenton's neck with my bare hands. That split second was just not long enough.

Then they dragged me away. I fought them all the way.

"Let me kill them… you've no idea what you're protecting…" I begged, I pleaded, I screamed, and fought.

But all was for naught.

They forced me down onto the cold hard floor and one of the doctors injected a tranquilizer.

I cried, not from pain of the needle, but from the pain of loss, and the pain of knowing what was to come.

"You'll regret that…" was all I said to the doctor as the drugs started to take effect. "There will be blood… there will… be.."


	17. Chapter 14

_And Chapter 14._

_Thanks Chromde, blackwolf. memorygirl and Diane for taking the time to let me know you enjoyed the last bit._

_I hope the writings improved a little. I'm still struggling. For some reason, my knowledge of grammar seems to have gone on an extended holiday destination unknown. And I'm having difficulty finding the words to create the effect I wanted.  
_

_Anyways, do leave a line if you can. It helps to keep me happy and encouraged about writing._

_Meantime, enjoy this chapter.  
_

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* * *

  
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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Fourteen**

-o-

It was ten in the evening. A tired looking male nurse in his fifties was making his rounds checking on the patients. He paused in from of a private ward, allowing the plainclothes officer on duty to check his credentials before proceeding into that room.

He started off with the usual steps, checking the chart at the foot of the bed. Then he proceeded to change the bag attached to IV drip that was attached to the blonde headed patient who was still sleeping off the effects of the sedatives. Under normal circumstances, this patient would not be waking up till the following morning.

But that bag of water meant to keep the patient hydrated was doctored with a mild dose of stimulant, hallucinogen, and a little extra. The young man should be awake within the next hour or so. That male nurse smiled as he reached down to loosen one of the straps that were binding that blonde to the bed.

"I'm giving you a chance to fulfill your heart's desire, ungrateful son of mine," that nurse whispered, his brown eyes shining with a maniacal inner light.

He reached down to gently caress the face of the young man. "Oh Joseph, I can't wait to see your next move…"

And then he left the same way he came, with no one wiser.

-o-

It was very late, but the two Hardy men were still hard at work in the dining hall of their home at the corner of Elm Street. Maps and handwritten case notes were spread haphazardly all over the extended dining table. Known and presumed locations of Andrew Kempton were carefully marked on one map. Unsolved homicide cases where Andrew Kempton was a suspect were marked on another map.

Then the old grandfather clock struck one.

Both the father and son took that same moment to look up from their case notes, rubbed their bleary eyes, and stretched their tensed neck and back muscles.

Two pair of brown eyes met, and saw the truth that no real progress had been made in the last two hours. Two pair of similar brown eyes showed the same disappointment, followed by grim determination. They had no choice but to work on.

"I'll make another two mugs of coffee," Frank said to his father before heading slowly into the kitchen.

Both knew they needed sleep. But both also knew that neither would be able to sleep. The impact of the series of shocking events of the day would not give them the peace they needed to rest their mind. So they chose to work their way through their pent up fears and frustrations. They had to find Andrew Kempton. They just had to, before someone else dies.

"I'll check on Laura and then call Officer Murphy," Fenton said to no one in particular and headed up to his bedroom.

Laura, his beloved wife, was sound asleep. Her face shone pale and fragile in the soft glow of the moonlight. He walked closer to tuck the blankets around her. It was then he saw the streaks on her face. It was clear she cried herself to sleep.

Fenton quietly let himself out of the room and headed back down to the dining hall. His steps were slow and tired. Everything happened because of him. Now his family was paying for his failure.

Once back at the dining room, he made his call to the hospital asking for Officer Murphy.

At that moment, Frank returned from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"Joe's still asleep in his room," Fenton told Frank as soon as he finished his conversation.

Both smiled a little. In the light of what happened today, that was one bit of good news.

Then two pairs of eyes turned bleak. Neither could imagine what Joe would be feeling. Nor could they imagine how he would react the next morning. But no matter how much Joe hated them, they would be there at the hospital before Joe wakes up in the morning. The whole family would be there, including Laura. And then the hard work would begin. They would have to try to explain to Joe what really happened. And they could only hope that Joe would give them enough of a chance. That Joe would give his real family a chance to explain. No, that was not the right thing to say. They would not stop explaining. They would never give up on Joe no matter what. They would keep on explaining until Joe listens; simple as that.

Both were about to return to work when a single gunshot shattered the night's peace and quiet.

That was followed by a loud dull 'bang' as the main door was slammed opened.

The father and son exchanged one startled gaze before rushing for their respective guns. Neither of them made it, because a familiar figure stepped purposefully into the room.

It was a reunion neither envisioned.

Joe was standing right there in front of them. And both Fenton and Frank Hardy found themselves each staring straight up the barrel of a standard police-issued revolver and a Glock pistol, both aimed squarely at their hearts.

-o-o-0-o-o-

I knew I was dreaming.

In my dream, I was happy.

It was my graduation. My parents were seated amongst the audience. They clapped and cheered as I walked up the stage to receive my diploma. Their eyes shone with love and pride. I did it. I made them proud. Later, we gathered outside the school auditorium with my fellow graduates and their families, doing all the happy things happy graduates do. I barely noticed the dark clouds that gathered in the far horizon.

But those clouds came in quick and fast. And before we knew it, we were all caught in the grip of an unforgiving storm.

For me, I realized too late, that an old evil had just found me again…

I tossed and turned uneasily in my sleep. I moaned and whimpered. I fought to wake up. I wanted to avoid the nightmare I knew would come. But I could not. Those cruel tendrils of sleep held me close to its bosom. I could not move, nor could I awaken. I could only watch, horrified, as life was slowly and painfully drained from my Mom and Dad.

All the while, Fenton and Frank stood in the background laughing at the futility of my struggles.

"We share the same blood, you and I," Frank said. "You cannot change what you are. Where we go, death follows…"

"No…" I refused to believe that; I repeated my Mom's and Michelle's words. "I am not like you. I make my own destiny…"

"You cannot run from your destiny, son," Fenton smirked. "All whom you loved are slated for death…"

"No… No….No! I would never become like you… never!"

I fought against that nightmarish destiny with every thing I had. I tugged and strained against those tendrils that held me prisoner. Then something broke, and I woke up. My first instinct was to scream my denial, but thank God I retained enough sanity to bit down hard on my lips, smothering that instinctive scream and keeping the night silence intact.

The door to my room opened. I shoved my freed left wrist under the blankets and pretended that I was still asleep. That someone that was left behind to guard me must be satisfied that I was still sleeping. He closed the door, and I was left alone again.

Over the next few minutes, I just lay there working on containing my grief. I cried at my new reality; Mom and Dad were dead.

Then I pulled myself together. I wanted justice. But first, I must get free of my restraints. I had no idea how I managed to get my left wrist free in the first place. Perhaps some angel finally heard my pleas and extended a helping hand.

I worked hard at loosening the strap around my right wrist. There was no way I was going to be around here comes morning. I was no fool. I knew I had to get away while I could. The moment I freed my right wrist, I use it to rip that needle out of my left wrist. Whatever Fenton had in that little bag flowing into me could not be good. Whatever was in that little bag was probably responsible for my current jumpiness, the heightened emotions, and my nightmares anyway.

I fought hard against the alternating grief and panic that were threatening to overcome my good sense. I fought hard against the effects of whatever drugs Fenton used on me. I fought as only I knew how, because I've experienced all of those before.

"Focus on making them pay…" I ordered myself sternly.

I looked around my room. It took a while, but I soon gathered enough items to create a shape under the blankets that could pass for me as long as whoever popped their head in did not turn the lights on. Then I headed towards the window. I was on the second floor. There was a set of pipes within reach running down to the ground.

What I needed to do now was to go home. There were some issues that I needed to settle; like my last will and testament. I am certain that my Mom and Dad would approve of me giving the bulk of their wealth to their favorite charities. I should also leave something for Maria, our loyal live-in nurse and housekeeper. I should ensure that her grandkids were provided for. Finally, I needed to write a letter to Vanessa, to explain to her why I broke my promise to her.

And then I would confront my past.

My home was a good distance from the hospital. So I stole a car. Yes, I stole a car. I chose an old car, picked the lock, jumpstart the engines, and drove off. A part of me marveled at the fact that I knew how to do that. Another part of me could not be bothered to wonder about it.

It must have been close to midnight by the time I drove up that final stretch of Shore Road leading up to my little lighthouse on The Point. All the way, I battle the incessant buzzing at the back of my mind, and my own volatile emotions. I parked my stolen car out of sight of my home. The police might have someone watching over my house, and the last thing I want was for them to alert my murderous biological father and brother as to my escape.

I shook my head and marveled at Fenton's ingenuity. Who would have expected a psycho serial killer like Fenton and Frank to be part of the law enforcement establishment? I laughed a little crazily at the irony that this truth would have made a great plot for one of Michael Black's crime novels. Whoever said that reality could not out-do the absurdity of pure fiction?

I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into the house. It was in the very air I breathe. It was like the Devil had been here and left His mark.

My heart started pounding really hard, so hard I could hear nothing beyond that pounding echoing off the walls of my eardrums. A chill started at the pit of my stomach. It only grew with each passing second. By the time I reached the door to my Dad's personal study, I could taste the sour bile at the back of my throat, ready to spill out at the slightest provocation.

Whatever it was, it was waiting for me behind that door. It was with utter dread I pushed that door opened.

Maria was there, seated in my Dad's ergonomic leather chair, her arms spread wide as if she was welcoming me into her embrace.

Her lips were crudely sewn into a grotesque smile. Her eyes were propped wide opened. Those usually gentle smiling eyes now radiated sheer pain and terror.

Those eyes were staring accusingly at me. I knew she died because of me. Just like Mom and Dad.

And blood. There was blood everywhere. Even on the parquet floor upon which I stood.

I lost control at that point. In my mind's eye, I saw her floating towards me. From her mouth, the words of accusations flowed. Her eyes reflected the pain and horrors she faced before she died.

And all that she went through was because of me…

Sheer guilt and terror rose to the fore. I tripped and fell backwards in my haste to get away from that bloody sight. A fission of pain rippled up my spine, but I ignored it and scrambled away in tears and horror.

But that blood-splattered-vision refused to let me go. The image of her sewn up face and bloody body greeted me no matter where I turn. Those terror-filled accusing eyes stayed with me no matter where I run.

Finally, I made it out of the house. The crisp night air cleared away a tiny part of my irrational fears. But I bump straight into a police car parked at the end of the driveway.

That car was unnaturally quiet.

The poor officer in the car was dead. I knew, yet I had to see the truth with my own two eyes. It looked like he was merely sleeping in the driver's seat, but for that deep red line across his neck.

I laughed. It started as the softest of a giggle that burst to the surface like an air bubble does in the water. Then it grew and it grew, till I was laughing crazily like a mad man.

There was no one near to hear me.

There was nowhere for me to run. There was nowhere for me to hide.

Dead, they were all dead.

And Vanessa? She's probably dead too. Even if she was still alive, she would soon be dead.

Death was my gift to any one who dared to care for me.

There was no escape from my fate.

I never should have tried. I should have died when I was given that chance to go in peace.

Calmness came over me.

I reached into the police car and took the revolver that was lying on the passenger seat next to the dead officer.

"Rest in peace," I said to him before calmly walking back into the house.

I took my time to go through each and every room.

In each room, I recalled a happy moment spent in that room. This was my way of exorcising the evil that touched this whole place; the evil that was here because of me. I did it also because I wanted to remember the last two happy weeks I spent in this new home with my Mom and my Dad. I knew this would be my last time walking down all these corridors and visiting all these rooms. I would never be coming back here again.

My final stop was my Dad's study. There, I took a blanket and gently covered Maria. I knew I was tampering with evidence, but it hardly right to leave her exposed that way. Furthermore, soon this evidence would no longer matter.

"Sleep well, Maria," I bade her.

Then I reached into the hidden compartment of the table for my Dad's Glock pistol before heading resolutely back to my stolen car.

I drove down Shore Road. I drove through the town centre. I made my way directly to that two storey house located at the corner of Elm and High Street. Of course I knew where Fenton lives. I was his son. As Frank said, I could not deny the fact that we all shared that same tainted blood.

At the back of my mind, the Devil's minions danced and sang their approval. I had no doubt that was where I belonged.

I parked the car a block away from my target. I walked the rest of the way so Fenton would have no warning of my arrival. I reached the front door, lifted one of my guns and blast away the lock. Then I kicked the door opened and walked straight in. There was light coming from the dining hall. And that was where Fenton and Frank were now, seated at that old wooden dining table planning and plotting their nefarious deeds deep into the night.

Everything ends right here tonight.

And the Devil could have my soul for all I cared.

I took that final step from the corridor into the dining hall, with both my guns held firmly before me. Both of them froze at the sight of my grand entrance. I could see the shock on their faces.

Do you think that psychotic serial killers looked ugly and mean? No. They are all good looking bitches and bastards. They are all intelligent, and they are all very likeable. How else do you think they could survive long enough to become serial?

"You've always wanted to make me a killer," I announced in a flippant tone and a big wide smile. "Congratulations, you've finally succeeded. Just guess who I selected as my first victims…"

Both Fenton and Frank were trying to say something. I could see their mouths moving almost desperately. My smile grew even wider, so wide my cheek muscles hurt. But I heard nothing of what they were saying simply because there was nothing they could possibly say that could interest me.

Instead my fingers tightened on the trigger.

Every thing would be over in a few seconds.

"JOE!... Don't!..."

That feminine voice was so familiar; it calls straight to my soul. I could not resist the need to turn around to see the owner of that voice, only to find myself staring into a pair of teary blue eyes.

In that instant, time slowed to a crawl.

It was that same big and desperate pale blue eyes that haunt my dreams. For the first time in six long years, the features I could never remember formed around those eyes. Soon, I could see the whole face. She was as beautiful as I thought she would be. Her hair was blonde, just like mine. She was dressed in a long flowing white gown of sorts.

I could not help the tears that started flowing.

How could I forget what my biological mother died for? But she became my guardian angel. And now at this low point in my life, she was again here for me. She saved my soul again.

I still have a choice. And I could still choose not to become like them.

It was not my job to be judge and executioner. Judgment belongs to God and God alone.

"Mom…" I whispered.

She must have heard me. She actually started smiling back.

I knew then that we would be together again.

That was why I felt nothing but peace and acceptance when that policeman stepped through the corridor with his gun pointed at me from the corner of my eye.

I kept my eyes locked to my Mom's pale blue ones.

And the policeman fired, as I knew he would.

_Bang. _


	18. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15._

_Thanks so so much for enjoying the last bit. I'm so sorry this took so long - but I had to do some serious shopping for baby pram, cot, clothes etc. I'm afraid I got caught my all the cutsy pink frilly girly stuff I could now buy._

_This chapter is mostly to tie up some loose ends on the Hardys side, and an excuse for Joe to remember some stuff. Its also a filler so Andrew would have the time he needed to get his stuff in place, and to set the scene for the next run. Also sorry for long chapters. Will try to shorten it.  
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_Tukkie: sorry __havent been reading emails cos of net problem. Net access limited to 15 mins at Pac Coffee, and upload limited to 10 mins free wifi time at a nearby McDonald. Getting a little sick of Mc burgers. Will try to visit in 2-3 days time to upload next bit. Hopeful of deciding on net provider soon. Can access short email on 3G phone. Sorry - that Frank seems to be getting into quite a bit of trouble for a Joe piece. Then again, I'm never really good with the Joe or Frank piece divide.  
_

_Will still try to finish this before baby due. As it stands, its 21 chapters.  
_

_Meantime, enjoy this chapter. Do leave a line if its okay.  
_

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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Fifteen**

-o-

It was very late. The last of the customers had just left a sleazy little bar located at a sleazy end of the town. After locking the doors, the plastered cheery smiles faded off the faces of the few tired staff. And they would still have to clean the place up before they could leave for the night.

In a tiny room above that bar, a meeting was taking place.

"It was as effective and addictive as you claimed," said the gruff voice of a well-dress man whose face was hidden in the shadows. "The Boss would like to know how much you can supply and what do you want in return."

Andrew Kempton smiled. Ambrosia was one of the few highly addictive designer drugs he developed a number of years back just for fun.

"I currently have about 200 lbs in stock," he said. "The Boss can have that entire stock, plus the formula for Ambrosia, in exchange for a small favor."

"Which is?" The well-dressed guy queried.

"Just a number of goons who wouldn't mind a short jail term to rough up several members of the Hardy household," Andrew said. "And to make a number of special deliveries…"

"The Hardys are not well-liked in this corner of town," the well-dressed guy commented. "Getting those few goons wouldn't be a problem, as long as we provide adequate compensation. I have to consult with The Boss first…"

"Go ahead," Andrew answered.

He waited patiently as the other man took out a cell phone and started quietly conversing with his Boss.

The Boss, as he expected, agreed.

"And you will let us know if and when you have a new formula suitable for the mass market?" the well-dressed guy intoned.

"Of course," Andrew replied smoothly.

They spent the next several hours hashing out the finer details.

As the sun rises heralding the arrival of the first day of March, Andrew Kempton was a happy man heading back to his hideout.

The deal was sealed.

-o-

In a spacious private ward located on the top floor of Bayport Memorial Hospital, a weary but determined brother kept watch over the other.

Frank Hardy knew every move his brother made. He heard every moan uttered. And he was the one who gently brushed away those tears. Leaning close, he whispered soothing words of comfort, and a promise that Andrew Kempton would never be able to come close again. Frank would like to think that his brother heard him, for the tears soon stopped. Joe seemed to sleep better after that.

He made sure that the only hospital staff allowed near his brother was the ones cleared by his father or Sam. He double-checked the medicines that were given to his brother. His mother and father had offered to take over, but he always refused.

Joe was his responsibility.

Every now and then, the harrowing events of fifteen hours ago would repeat itself in his mind. Those few emotionally intense seconds were permanently seared into his memory:

_For one joyous moment, he thought he heard his brother acknowledged their mother. That meant Joe remembered… _

_But the next moment he was leaping through the air with horror in his heart as he tackled a fellow law enforcement officer in a desperate bid to save his brother's life. _

_In the stillness that followed, the sense of relief he felt when he thought he might have succeeded was overwhelming. _

_Only to have that hope snatched away from him in the very next instant when his eyes saw and his mind registered the red stain that was spreading swiftly through Joe's shirt. _

_He watched in absolute disbelief as Joe teetered unsteadily for a while before falling to the ground. His mother's cries of denial and grief rang loud in his ears even as he sat rooted to the spot, unable to accept what his mind told him he was seeing._

_Frank was vaguely aware of his father moving in to break Joe's fall. He was vaguely aware of his mother scrambling over to assess his brother's wounds. He was even vaguely aware that the officer that he just tackled reaching for his CB radio and calling for an ambulance._

_But he could not find the will to act or react._

_All he could think of was; Joe came home, only to die._

_He failed… _

Thank God his brother lives.

And thank God that all Joe got was a flesh wound. Even the doctor mentioned how lucky Joe was after hearing what happened. The bullet merely grazed the upper left torso and went clean through the fleshy part of Joe's upper left arm missing the bone.

"You need to rest and eat something, Frank."

"Not hungry, Dad," he answered, even as his stomach growled at the sight and smell of the sandwich his father just shoved under his nose.

Fenton raised his brow as Frank turned a shade redder.

"Your mother made it. It's your favorite home-made honey roasted beef," the father cajoled as he unwrapped that home-made treat.

There was another soft moan.

Frank was by his brother's side in an instant, his own tiredness and hunger again forgotten. His hand gently danced across his brother's brow, the way he used to do when they were kids. That simple act never failed to drive away Joe's nightmares. Slowly, Joe lapsed back into a peaceful sleep. It even appeared to Frank as if Joe was smiling.

"Do you think he's remembering?" Frank asked hopefully.

"He will remember," was his father's simple reply.

It took a while for those words to sink in. And Frank had to agree with his father. Joe would remember eventually, and that was what mattered. When Joe awakes, he would have to deal with the death of his entire adoptive family. It would not be fair for his real family to burden him with more emotional demands.

"You need to eat, son. And you need to rest. Let me and your mom take over for a while."

Frank was about to say 'no' when he heard what his father added in a firmer tone, "you've been sitting here for the last fifteen hours. Let your mom take over for a while."

Only then did Frank hear what Fenton not say out loud: we're Joe's family too.

He had been selfishly hogging Joe…

Frank nodded his agreement. But he was still reluctant to relinquish his place by his brother's bedside. So he stayed where he was and slowly nibble at his sandwich and sip at his can of coke.

"Joe should be waking up soon," he mumbled instead, noting the fact that almost fifteen hours had passed.

"The doctor said Joe would be out for at least fifteen to twenty hours, Frank," Fenton reminded his elder son. "He also needs to sleep off the effects of whatever drugs Andrew managed to put into his system."

Two pairs of eyes darkened at that reminder. It was galling to know how easily Andrew Kempton had gotten to Joe, to the Blacks, and to Maria. That was why Fenton personally looked into the background of every single medical staff allowed to come near Joe.

That was also why Frank refused to leave his brother's side.

"Callie…" Frank suddenly paled; he had not had any contact with Callie for at least eight hours now, and anything could happen in eight hours.

"Tommy's still with Callie and Vanessa," Fenton said in an assuring tone. "Con will be joining them tonight. And Chief Freeman has arranged for increased patrol in their area. We're also arranging to move both of them and possibly their immediate family to a safe house as soon as possible."

Frank stared at his father blankly for a moment. His heart sank. It happened again. Thank God his father was there for Callie and Vanessa. He was not. How could he be one of the top graduates of his course, a promising rookie homicide detective, and yet kept failing those who mattered to him at the most crucial moments?!

Fenton watched his son's uncharacteristic reaction with concern.

"Frank…"

The father tried to reach out to his son, and was surprised when Frank moved away.

"What's wrong, son?" he asked again.

"I forgot…"

"You were tired," Fenton cut in firmly, knowing now exactly what Frank was referring to. "And you know Callie's safe. And Vanessa. Tommy won't let anything happen to them."

When Frank still refused to meet his eyes, Fenton knew there was something else.

"What else is bothering you, son?"

"I froze."

Frank's voice was so soft, Fenton almost missed it.

"I saw the blood. All I could think of was that Joe was dead. But he was alive and bleeding…"

Fenton's eyes widened in comprehension, and he berated himself a moment for missing it. He understood that kind of guilt well, very well indeed.

"You saved your brother's life," Fenton said in a voice that brooked no dissent.

Not that he expected Frank to take what he said at face value, so he reconstructed what happened logically.

"None of us saw that police officer, but you did," Fenton reminded his guilt-tripping son. "You know how the situation would look like to any law enforcement officer. It would appear that Joe was about to shoot two victims point blank. Officer Rand would compute that he had only a fraction of a second to save two lives, and his only option would be to shoot to kill. You know that, Frank. And you managed to divert that shot. As a result, Joe got a flesh wound instead of a fatal hit. You saved Joe."

"And then I froze."

Stubborn boy! Fenton sighed.

_'Stubborn as a %&*#!' A familiar voice from his past echoed through his mind. That was Sam Radley throwing up his hands in surrender after trying numerous times to get Fenton to step berating himself…_

"Six years ago, I froze too," Fenton announced in a soft clear voice. "I knew Andrew Kempton had you and Joe. Yet all I could see was the blood on your mother's chest. All I could think was that she was dead, that I lost her…"

The father kept his eyes on his son as he spoke. While it was true that he threw off that yoke of guilt years back, he realized now that it was only sort of true. A part of him had always wondered how Frank or Joe would react if they knew. Laura, blessed her, had forgiven him for that lapse. That forgiveness had meant everything to him.

Frank looked at his father, surprised by what his father just said. After all, he heard from various officers, Sam, and Ezra, how a terrified yet determined father worked through all the clues and figured out his son's location when no one else could. That was the father he knew, and the father he ad came to depend on.

"You found me…" was all Frank said.

Fenton smiled wryly. "Yes. The truth was: I froze. I stood there in shock while Sam worked to save Laura's life. Sam had to literally scream some sense into me to get me moving. And Ezra was the one who kept reminding me that I still had two sons who needed me…"

The father shook his head lightly to dislodge those old memories, the memories that still had the power to terrify and hurt.

"I spent weeks castigating myself over that lapse," Fenton continued his admission. "In the end, it was Laura who set me straight. We're only human, son. And there will be times when the mind and body just had to take some time-out just to protect itself…"

As a psychology student, Frank knew what his Dad was talking about. Yet knowing in theory and reacting in reality are two very different things.

"It's okay to feel guilty, Frank. Even to wallow in it for a while, if you needed to," his mother's voice cuts in. "Took your father a few weeks to work through that. But I'd prefer if you don't try your best to break that record."

Frank turned around to see his mother standing at the door, watching them with a little smile on her face. It looked like she was recalling something from the past. He wondered how long she's been there, and how much she'd overheard. Then his mother was moving towards him.

"We all have our moments," his mother said. "But there is one thing I want you to remember, always. You have family and friends who will be there for you. We have family and friends who will be there to pick up the slack when we needed that break to heal our minds and souls. You understand what I am saying, don't you?"

Frank nodded. The logic's the easy part. It's the acceptance that he found hard to do.

Laura reached up to gently cup her son's face, staring straight into his eyes. She had her own admission to make.

"Do you know that it was your steadfast belief in your brother that kept hope alive for me and your father all these years?" she asked. "It was painful to hope and have that hope dashed at the end of every single day. There were times I would have preferred to just let go and carry on with life. But you never let go, and I am grateful you held on. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

Laura turned to look at the other son still sleeping in his bed.

"You are right. Joe lives. And now he's home," Laura turned her bright eyes back to her son before continuing. "And I never thanked you for saving Joe's life. None of us saw what was coming but you did. And you acted. You saved Joe's life. Thank you."

Frank relished the comfort of the hug his mother gave him. Laura Hardy was always generous in her hugs and embraces. But there were times when it was nice to be comforted, and there were times when one needed that comforting. Then Fenton joined in. They stood there together for a moment, exorcising their recent fears and tensions. The ordeal was clearly not over. Andrew Kempton was still out there somewhere, plotting and planning. But the likes of Andrew Kempton would never break the spirit of this family.

It was a while before they extricate themselves from that tangle of limbs. There were several short burst of shy laughs as they each pretended that they weren't crying if just a little. After all, they were family. But each acknowledged that they had their own little bits of useless pride that do get in the way some time. They were after all, just human.

"Now, finish your sandwich and take a quick shower, Frank You stink," Laura admonished sternly as she recovered from that little bout of sentimentality. "I've cleared with the doctors and the Blacks' family lawyer. We can all spend the night in this room with Joe. You and Fenton can fight over the other couch. I'm taking this comfy one right here."

Frank had to smile. His mother just staked her claim on the couch next to Joe's bed and dared him to deny her. He couldn't of course. And his father would take the other couch. The dutiful son would just have to make do with a blanket on the floor.

He finished his sandwich and coke under his mother's watchful eye before excusing himself to head into the privacy of the corridor to make a call to Callie. Ten minutes later, a happier and more relaxed Frank returned to the private ward. His father was seated in the corner going through his notes next to the night light. His mother was comfortably curled in the couch next to Joe reading a book. It was all in all a very cozy and familial sight.

It did not take him long to fall asleep on the floor after he had his warm shower. He had been running on adrenaline and caffeine for far too long.

Several hours later, Fenton nodded off, followed by Laura.

The hours passed peacefully. No one disturbed them.

And then it was the dawn of a new day. (March 2nd)

-o-o-0-o-o-

I felt warmth on my face. I opened my eyes and saw soft glow of the morning sun streaming through the window. It took me a while to figure out that I was in a hospital.

What happened?

My body felt achy, as if I just recovered from a bad bout of flu. My chest felt sore and my left arm hurts like hell. Like someone poked a burning steel rod right through.

That pain jolted a memory:

_A single gunshot echoed through the house. _

_I smiled joyfully at Mom, my guardian angel. Laura. I even remember her name now. Soon I would be reunited with my love ones. _

_Then I felt that very first twinge of burning pain. _

_It would not be long now, so I thought._

_But no, something was wrong. Mom was no longer smiling at me. Instead, horror was written all over her face. And that pain was wrong. It wasn't hurting at the right places. _

_I looked down. My left sleeve was rapidly turning red. I smothered a bitter laugh. That was not the fatal hit I was expecting. _

_A different pain, a more agonizing one, swept through me. The reunion with my loved ones that I was looking forward to was being taken from me again. _

_"No…." I believed I howled._

_So close, yet so far. Then again, I was born under the bad luck star._

_I turned and saw the cause of my grief._

_Frank. _

_Frank somehow saved my life and condemned me to live on._

I looked down at my bandaged arm and thought bitterly, "I'm alive."

So many died, and yet I lived.

I could barely smother a moan of despair at that knowledge. Both my Mom and Dad were dead. They adopted me, gave me so much, and then died because of me. How could I live with that knowledge? How?

My eyes were clenched tightly shut. But I could feel the hot scalding tears flow down my cheeks. There was nothing wrong in crying for all I lost.

A soft feminine hand gently brushed away my tears. A soft gently voice was telling me over and over that she loved me, and that everything would be all right from now on. I wanted to laugh. How could everything be all right? Michelle and Michael Black, my Mom and Dad were dead.

But that voice was soothing yet familial. I opened my eyes and saw my Mom standing over me; my guardian angel.

She was holding my right hand with her right, and brushing away my tears with her left. I could see how much she loved and missed me. She even said it. And that sadness and yearning behind those pale blue eyes…

I let her down again.

"So sorry Mom," I croaked.

She kept coming for me but I kept living. I just couldn't or wouldn't die.

But those around me kept dying…

"Hushed. Everything will be fine," she said more forcefully this time. "We won't let them get to you again…"

I felt her hand tightening its grip on mine. It was warm. I tightened my grip around her hand. It was solid. Rock solid…

"You're alive…" I cried out in disbelief.

How could that be? I shot her through the heart. We shot her through the heart, my Dad and I. So how could she be alive?

"You didn't die…" I could not keep that wonderment from my voice. "I didn't kill you… I didn't…"

"Yes… I didn't die… and you didn't," she continued in a much fiercer tone, as if willing me to believe in her words. "It was never you, Joe. Never, you hear that. You didn't. You would never kill anyone. It was Andrew Kempton. Andrew Kempton and his son William. Not you..."

I didn't kill her! I latched on to that fact with everything I had. Mom lives. I didn't kill her…

It felt like a heavy burden had just been lifted off me.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. Nor could I take my hands off her. The need to touch the warmth of her hands and trace those familiar features of her face was overwhelming. There was this underlying fear that I was dreaming, and that if I let go, she'd disappear and never returned.

Mom continued chattering, though I only heard snippets of what she said. I was too busy savoring every inch of her features.

"… father and brother… Andrew Kempton and his son… they won't touch you again…"

Andrew and William Kempton… why do those two names sound so familiar? And I sensed that my Mom hated and feared them. I racked my wooly brains. Two shadowy figures with brown hair and brown eyes formed at the back of my mind. I could not see their faces clearly, but somehow I knew they were father and son. A dull throbbing started behind my eyes and slowly spread to my temples.

Who were Andrew and William Kempton? Why couldn't I remember those people whom my Mom seems to fear and hate?

That was when I saw Fenton and Frank hovering just behind Mom…

"You! What are you doing here?!" I hissed; the dull throbbing at the back of my head temporarily forgotten. "Get out!"

"Joe… They're your family…" I heard my Mom, Laura, saying.

"No," I gritted out through clenched teeth.

They killed my adoptive parents. They wouldn't even spare Maria. I would never acknowledge them.

"Get out, get out of my room. Now!"

Both Fenton and Frank flinched visibly. I could see from their eyes my reaction hurt them. Badly. Why should it? They never even loved me.

"They're your father and brother, Joe," Mom was still trying to explain as I reached blindly for that button that would summon a hospital staff to my room. "Things are not what you think they are… Please, let us explain… let me explain…"

Of course I knew they were my brother and father. I spent the last six years denying their existence. It was easy when I could not remember who they were or what they looked like. But now, knowing them and seeing for myself the similarities in our features made me sick. Why would any normal sane person want to acknowledge a psycho killer for a brother or father? And why would Mom…

Something clicked at the back of my mind.

Yeah, why would Mom?

As a matter of fact, it did not appear that Mom was scared of or angry with those two in any way.

A nurse and a doctor arrived. I wanted to tell them to throw Fenton and Frank out of my room. But Mom's pleading eyes stopped me. Or at least I would like to think so.

I watched warily as Mom, Fenton and Frank communicated with the doctor and the nurse. They all seemed to be on familial terms. I could not decide if that bodes ill or well.

"At least you didn't break any bones this time," middle-aged motherly looking doctor who introduced herself as Dr. Barton said with a friendly smile.

I stared at her for a moment. She sounded like she knew me. And did Dr. Barton say 'this time'? She made it sound like I was a regular here.

Was I?

Nah, a part of me scoffed. Six years as Joe Black I was never a patient at any hospital. Not once.

Yeah, but before that?

Before that I was being drugged and chopped into pieces then sewn back together over and over by a pair of brother and father medical expert psychos. I even knew how to cut and sew myself up. Who needed a hospital then?

Dr. Barton was still clucking like a mother hen as she cleansed my wound and replaced the bandages.

"…never liked hospitals… never follow the doc's orders…" I thought I heard her say, though her mouth never moved.

I must be imagining it.

An image of her throwing up her hands in exasperation and surrender flashed for an instant and was gone, leaving behind that throbbing ache behind my eyes that felt just a little more painful than before.

"There, just try not to move that arm too much," Dr. Barton said. "You don't want to tear all those beautiful stitches…"

Do I know you? I desperately wanted to ask, but for some reason, I just could not get those words out. Something of that desperation must have showed, for she said: "Just take it easy, Joe. Everything will come back to you in due course. Don't push yourself."

What will come back to me in due course?

"And do not hesitate to call for me if you need anything. Anything at all," she stressed before she left.

I did not miss that warning glance she gave Frank and Fenton. Made me feel a little better; I was not the only one wary of those two.

"Please, Joe," Mom was close to pleading. "Things are not what you think they are. Give them a chance. Give me a chance to explain a little…"

Mom pleading on THEIR behalf? My curiosity pricked, I nodded curtly. I always knew that was a bane of my existence, that sense of curiosity of mine.

And Mom began to speak.

I sat and listened. To one ridiculously incredible tale that by the end of the hour seemed to take on a certain macabre sense of reality. Fenton and Frank were my father and brother. I was abducted by Andrew and William Kempton who pretended to be my father and brother.

Let's see. I had three fathers. A real life private eye, followed by a real life serial killer, followed by a real life best selling crime-mystery novelist.

And I had two moms, both who loved me. One I thought I killed, and the other now dead because of me.

It was kinda darkly funny. I never considered myself that lovable or popular a person.

Still, it was a giddy feeling to be told that the one deep-seated fear I had about myself wasn't true. I was not related to those two psychos in any way. It was not in my blood to be a killer.

Then again, if blood does not make a man, what does?

There were just so much blood and death around me…

I shuttered off that line of thought.

Perhaps it was because of that innate desire of mine to believe that I am normal. And perhaps it was the photographs that Mom was showing to me of a happy normal past with a happy normal family.

Merry laughter rang at the back of my mind, and scenes long forgotten rose to the fore. I knew those scenes were real memories because they were not scenes from the photographs Mom showed to me.

No, those were the memories of two little boys running amok in a tiny apartment driving their mom nuts with their hyperactive demands. The two boys were brothers, borne just a year apart. I watched them grow up together through the years. They were close and rarely apart for long. The older brother was definitely very protective and loving of the younger, whose curiosity tends to outweigh his common sense that oft led him into mishaps.

One of those boys was me.

The other was… Frank.

My eyes snapped towards Frank. Our eyes met and held. The love and hope in those brown eyes were so raw I knew it could not be faked. I could almost hear him pleading with me to remember what we had and shared once upon a time.

I knew without doubt that the psycho I remembered for a brother would never be able to manage that kind of heart-felt emotion.

More memories flashed by:

_I was standing in the middle of a football field. The scoreboard said that we were one point behind with just over a minute to go. I sent a signal to Frank. He knew what I needed, he always do; we were a team. We misled our rivals, Frank got a little roughed up, and Biff Hooper scored the touchdown._

_' Frank… we won...' I gasped. _

"Frank… we won…" I found myself repeating that out loud.

Strangely, I did felt as if 'we' did just win over something together.

Frank must have heard what I said. I heard his indrawn breath. I could not help but take in that hopeful expression forming on his face.

Other similar memories followed in quick succession. All the boyish pranks we played on each other, and together on others. How we ogled at and talked about girls, but were once too shy to approach any. And then there was that one time when we ended up in detention and Mom had to come down to Bayport High to talk to the principal. The little mysteries that we solved together in Bayport and the mishaps we got into that gave Mom the white hair on her head. And in that tree house that we built in our backyard one summer, we talked about our dreams and made our plans to start a detective agency together…

"… best friends and partners forever," I echoed the promise being made in that little tree house so many years ago.

Frank's eyes shone brightly. I wondered if his eyes were hurting like mine.

I called out to him, or did I?

It mattered not for he was by my side in an instant, as I instinctively knew he would.

"I missed you, little bro," he said, grabbing me in a bear hug and was yet careful of my left arm. "You've no idea how much…"

Did I miss him? How could I miss something I never remembered, that I never knew I had? Yet I recalled moments in my life as Joe Black eyeing my classmates with siblings with more than a simple sense of envy.

"I think I missed you too…" I said honestly – that was all I could offer. "I know you love me. And I remember I love you too…"

It felt good to have those brotherly arms tightening around me. It mattered not that I was an adult full-grown. At that moment, I felt like a child in need of comfort and support. I needed that comfort and support.

My memories were still unfolding, and at an ever faster pace. I could feel the start of a pounding headache which I willfully ignored. My desire and my need to remember took precedence over all else. I bit down hard on my lips to stifle a low moan, and to counter the throbbing burning in my head.

More faces started to coalesce in my mind, and along with those, names to match. Gawky, studious looking Phil Cohen, lean athletic Jerry Gilroy, dark haired rugged Tony Prito, and chubby cheery Chet Morton… Morton…

A feisty petite pixie-faced beauty was staring up at me with love in her eyes and a smile on her lips…

Iola…

And then she was gone in an explosive fireball.

She died, when it should have been me.

A soft strangled cry escaped from my throat before I could rein that in.

She died because she loved me.

A pain started in my chest in addition to the headache that was forming. But the memories continued to flow.

I watched helplessly my happy years with the Blacks fly by, knowing that it would end in tragedy…

I started to tremble.

I heard Frank asking me if I was all right. I did not respond. My eyes were wide open, but unseeing of what was around me.

I could only wait for the scene I dreaded. All too soon, Michelle was in my arms gasping for breath and dying. Her last words to me were to remind me how much she loved me and how proud she was of me. And then I was hanging on desperately to Mike. He never moved. His heart wasn't even beating. It wasn't long before the doctors pronounced him dead.

The pain in my heart was unbearable.

And then there was Maria, her dead eyes staring accusingly at me.

They all died because of me…

Someone or something whispered in my mind. "All who loves you dies… killer…"

"No!" I fought back. "I'm not…"

It was them, THEM, not me…

Cruel laughter rang in my head.

I saw a shiny scalpel in my hand. I saw how swiftly and cleanly I could slice and dice a rodent with it. I saw a tiny but real heart beating within a tiny ribcage. My hands were coated with blood…

I saw myself working to swallow my bile as THEY torment and eventually killed THEIR victims. I felt sick when I remembered that I was carefully watching and remembering HOW they did it.

And then I was standing before a young girl strapped down onto a makeshift operating table. I do not know her name, but I knew I was going to slice her up before killing her. I was going to put everything I learned from my brother and father into good use and make them proud of me…

I was going to…

Horror filled me.

I was going to torture her before killing her…

I started trembling violently. I had difficulty breathing. The bile rose from my guts and spilled out of me. I…

There were voices coming as if from a distance.

"Joe!"

"… get the doctor…"

"… look at me, little bro, look at me…"

"… deep breaths…"

I tried to reach them, but I could not.

I tried to stop remembering. But the floodgates, once opened, could not be closed. The pounding in my head grew worse, but it did nothing to stop the relentless flow of horrifying images:

_I was walking calmly down a road towards a two storey house. I finally accepted my destiny, that that is that I was born to kill. But unlike THEM, I'm going to be very selective about my victims. There would be only two… _

_Once in the dining room, I lifted my guns and aimed. I was relishing in my next act. I was going to kill Fenton and Frank… _

_I was going to kill Frank… I was happily going to… kill… _

That scene froze.

During that breather, I tried to rally my faith in myself. I didn't kill Frank. I didn't kill anyone. I didn't…

Then slowly, that scene restarted.

I knew that I was no longer looking at a memory, but a vision of what was to come:

_The smile on my face was now different. It was the lazy smile of someone doing something most pleasurable. I was no longer holding a gun but a scalpel. The silvery scalpel flashed and sliced. _

_I could hear Frank's voice crying out in pain. He was begging me to stop. _

_I did not. With a single flip of my wrist, I had that scalpel buried partway into his heart. _

"Noooooooo!"

Was that me howling or was that someone else?

I felt a multitude of arms fighting to hold me down.

The headache was excruciating. The emotional agony was worse. I could not breathe and dark spots started to appear before my eyes.

It took a painfully long time before the blessed darkness dragged me down into its depths.


	19. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16!_

Thanks for the kindly reviews!

LOL! Franknjoe - am I glad you don't think like Kempton, or I would be worried.

And thanks too - I'm afraid I've been enjoying baby shopping a little too much.

Yup, we're back to action again by the end of this chapt. Hope this chapt's not as draggy as the last.

Pls leave a line if its worth the next bit :)

Tukkie: Sent all chapters over as you request :) Hope you like it, and sorry it took so long. Ta-da! Hope you like the ending. Don't think I'd do another present-request-writing for a while. cheers and enjoy!

* * *

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Sixteen**

-o-

Frank Hardy was leading the way to the private guest lounge on the top floor of Bayport Memorial. He and his parents were all feeling rather tensed and more than a little nervous.

It's been twenty four hours since the three of them were banished from Joe's room by Dr. Barton. She was disappointed with them, and in all honesty, Frank could not fault her for that. They had been selfish. They pushed Joe too hard and too fast.

Joe remembered, and then shut down.

And he forgot.

Everything.

Joe woke up asking for his parents – Michael and Michelle Black.

After he accepted the fact that they were dead, he asked for 'Uncle Simon'.

'Uncle Simon', or Simon Leron, was the Blacks family lawyer and also a close family friend. His friendship with Michael Black went back to the high school days.

And Simon Leron was now a little upset with them.

Actually, 'a little upset' was an understatement.

Leron had dropped everything and rushed down to the hospital the moment he was informed by Dr. Barton what happened. After a quick briefing with Dr. Barton, he confronted the Hardys and made it clear in no uncertain terms that he felt his trust in the Hardys had been misplaced. He also stressed that he expected the doctors' orders to be strictly enforced this time – or else.

That was a bitter pill to swallow, to have an outsider telling them to put Joe's well-being as a priority.

That was also why the family had not contested the doctor's orders that they would not be seeing Joe until he asks for them.

"At least we know that 'Uncle Simon' will take good care of Joe," was all Fenton said before he ushered his family home to rest. "And he's more than capable…"

Frank acknowledged reluctantly his father was right. Simon Leron had served ten years with the Israelite military before returning to the United States to study Law at Yale. He worked part-time at a supervisory level at a local security company to put himself through law school. It was clear to Frank from the way Leron handled everything he genuinely cared for Joe. By the time Leron arrived at Bayport Police department, both Michael and Michelle Black were already dead. It was past ten at night, but he still made it his priority to see to Joe's health and safety. He insisted on a nutshell briefing of what happened from the officer in charge of the case before heading directly down to the hospital. He had Joe moved from the semi-private ward to the first-class ward on the top floor of Bayport Memorial. The Blacks could more that afford the bill, he said. Plus Joe would need both the privacy and the security, he added, referring not only to Andrew Kempton, but also to the host of reporters gathered at the hospital gates. He took the time to check out the Hardy's claims despite the fact that it was almost midnight. He listened to them and looked at the photographs provided. He studied the birth certificates and called up an old contact to request for verification. And then he took Joe's prints and insisted that Frank and Fenton accompanied him back to Bayport PD so he could personally compare all the prints to those on police record. He rang up and questioned both Chief Freeman and ex-chief Collig about the Hardys. He asked for the Kempton files so that he could assess the nature of the threat Joe faced, which Fenton was more than happy to provide. Finally, he checked with the doctors before agreeing to let the Hardys stay with Joe. It was dawn before Leron retired to a hotel to rest.

They still have to track Andrew down, Fenton pointed out to Frank when his son appeared reluctant to leave. Furthermore, Laura looked like she's going to collapse where she stood. And Joe clearly had enough to worry about, without having to worry over the welfare of his family when he remembers, Fenton reasoned. So they all went home to rest and wait for the doctors to call them.

And they did.

Actually, it was Simon Leron who called them that morning.

"Joe would like to meet you, could you come down, say, at ten?" he asked. "We'll meet in the private guest lounge. We need to talk before that."

Of course they could! So they rushed down to the hospital, and Simon Leron met them at the private guest lounge just several doors away from Joe's room.

"He remembers us?" Laura blurted out that question the moment she saw Leron.

Leron's expression was surprisingly gentle.

"No," he said, and Laura's face fell.

As did Frank and Fenton's.

"Then why? How?" Frank was curious, since Dr. Barton said that she would not agree to Joe seeing them unless he asked for them.

"I told him," Leron answered. "That he still has a family, and that his biological family had been looking for him for the last six years and would like to see him."

Frank was surprised. He had not expected Leron to do them that favor. He was expecting Leron to just wait for Joe to remember for himself, which Frank had feared, might take forever.

"Joe blanked out a lot of things. Dr. Barton said it was just a mechanism to cushion the mind from the intensity of the emotional turmoil. I agreed with her," Leron started to explain. "But Joe also remembered a lot, and I do not believe that those screwed up half remembered memories are good for him."

Simon Leron gestured for them to take a seat before continuing. "I know from my time in the war zone that it is never healthy to indulge in illusions. It almost always led to more problems in the long run. That was why I disagreed with Dr. Barton regarding Joe's treatment. I know Joe for six years, and I've always considered him a strong character. I believe that he could cope with the facts, as long as I don't dump them all on his lap at one go."

"Dr. Barton disapproved of course," Leron shrugged. "But she doesn't know Joe the way I do."

"I didn't tell him everything," Leron gave them a wry smile. "There are some things that he will have to remember on his own. It's better that way. But I believe there are some facts that he should know. For instance, he should know that he is in no way related to the Kemptons and that his parents and Maria's death had nothing to do with him whatsoever and were the works of a nutcase. And he should know that he still has a family out there who had been looking for him."

Frank blinked back his tears. What Simon Leron did went far beyond what he expected.

"Thanks," Frank said.

"But he didn't remember us…?" Laura asked again, this time, her tone more curious than nervous.

"No, not yet. But he knows." Leron shook his head, and then added. "I only gave him some basic facts. That he has an elder brother, Frank, who currently works as a homicide detective for the Bayport Police Department, and father, Fenton, who is a respectable private investigator, and a mother, Laura, who volunteers for the local Red Cross."

A normal family with very respectable professions and a far cry from the Kemptons, Frank thought. He suddenly realized what Leron did, and his respect for that man went up several notches.

"Thank you," Frank told Leron, more gratefully this time. "We won't undo what you did," Frank promised. "We'll work on getting him to feel comfortable with us and let him remember in his own time."

"That's what I hope to hear," Leron responded with a smile, a genuine one this time. "If you'd just wait a while, I'll let Joe knows you're here."

The Hardys nodded and waited.

Five minutes later, Simon Leron closed the door behind them, and they were in the room with Joe. Just them, a family…

Frank could not help that indrawn breath as his brother's blue eyes settled on him. There was a short moment he thought he saw something flickered in those depths, and then it was gone, as if it was never there.

It was an awkward few minutes. No one quite knew what to say.

"Hi," he finally offered rather lamely.

Joe smiled a little.

"Please," his brother said. "Take a seat."

They did.

It was sort of sad, all that awkwardness and silence. But they really do not want a repeat of what happened the last time.

"Thanks for agreeing to meet us," Laura finally said.

Frank held his breath, hoping that it wasn't the wrong thing to say.

The faint smile disappeared off Joe's face. He looked away. And then…

"I'm sorry," Joe said softly. "I'm sorry I don't remember."

The tone was sad, regretful.

"We're happy we found you," Laura said, and there was clearly no mistaking the joy and love in her voice. "And we're so thankful that you're well..."

The smile returned to Joe's face, if a little tentative.

"Thanks…" he said, before adding, "thanks, Mom."

The joy on Laura's face was a sight to behold.

"Can I… can I hug you?" Laura asked softly, and then held her breath hopefully.

Joe hesitated a moment before nodding.

Frank could see that while Joe let Laura hug him, his brother was not very comfortable with that level of physical contact either.

"Thanks," Laura said wiping away her tears.

"You're welcome," Joe replied.

There was another moment of silence.

"Is that your works?" Frank finally asked as his eyes spied on a pile of sketchbooks laid out carelessly on the other side of Joe's bed.

"Yes."

"Can I…" Then Frank caught his father's eyes. "Can we have a look?" Frank amended his original intended request.

It was a while before Joe nodded, then reached for the first of his sketchbooks.

He and his parents spent the next twenty minutes just going through the drawings. They spent the next twenty minutes simply enjoying each other's company.

And those sketches were good, Frank admitted. As good as the few limited edition comic strips that Joe collected as a teenager.

Then a hospital staff arrived with a lunch tray.

It was healthy food, better than what one gets in the general ward below, but its still low-fat, healthy food.

"Would you like me to pop down and get you something else?" Frank asked before he could stop himself. The brother he remembered never like hospital food.

Joe looked surprise, and then there was this glint in his eyes. Frank smiled. How he missed that glint that promised mischief!

"You'll have to get past that ogre standing guard by the lift," Joe warned, and then added. "Uncle Simon said that's an impossible task."

"There's something called the fire escape and a little bit of teamwork," Frank countered. "Dad will help – won't you?"

Fenton groaned.

Joe chuckled. It was a pleasant sound.

"So, what would you like?" Frank asked, ignoring his mother's mocked horrified expression. "Double steak burger with extra cheese?"

He was surprised to see Joe's expression turned somber.

"I used to like that." Joe commented, and then his expression turned sad.

"Then Mom fell sick. She couldn't eat a lot of things. I took up several cooking classes just so that I could make nice edible healthy food. I prepared most meals, and we ate together. Most days, she just didn't have the appetite, but she tried to eat what she could, because I made them…"

It wasn't hard to tell how close Joe was to Michelle Black.

"Sort of got used to the low-fat and high fiber diet over the months…" Joe continued as he reached for the photo frame on the little shelf next to him. "I don't think the grease sits well with me anymore…"

Joe turned and looked at them one by one.

"Whoever I was, I don't remember," he said. "And I don't think I could go back to being that person…"

"Joe…" Frank started.

"They're my family too…" Joe continued as if Frank never spoken, his fingers gently tracing the faces of Michael and Michelle Black in the photograph. "I'm sorry…"

"Of course they are your family," Laura cuts in firmly. "They will always be your family."

She reached over for one of Joe's hands, and waited till she got the eye contact. "Just like we are your family…and we'll always be your family… Nothing can change that. Nothing…"

"I know," Joe finally said.

They lapsed into another uncomfortable silence.

Then Joe spoke up, if a little hesitantly. "I'm sorry… but I need…"

Frank stood up. He knew what his brother needed. As do his parents. Poor Joe did look rather pale and tired.

Fenton tore a page from his notebook and scribbled down all their phone numbers. It felt better that way, more familial than handing out name cards. "These are our numbers," he said to Joe. "Call us if you need anything, anything at all."

"I will," Joe said. "Dad."

"And thanks," Frank added – for agreeing to see them.

And they turned to leave, if albeit reluctantly.

"Frank?"

Frank turned around, a hopeful feeling in his heart.

"My cell phone number," Joe said holding up a piece of paper.

He took it, feeling a little happier.

"Can we visit tomorrow?" Frank asked.

Joe thought for a moment before shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," he answered a little regretfully, staring down at the photograph in his hands. "I need some time and space to sort things out. And there are things that I have to do…I'll let you know when I'm ready…"

"I understand," Frank said, but he could not help feeling a little disappointed.

"Frank?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about, Joe."

"Thanks… bro… I just want to say, I may not remember, but I know… that we were close."

Frank's eyes misted. He had a feeling everything would be all right.

He nodded. Then he turned and followed his parents out of the door.

-o-o-0-o-o-

I watched them walked out of my room.

They seemed happier than when they walked in.

I did what I set out to do.

I looked down at the photograph on my lap. Again I felt the weight of grief pressing down on me. For six years, they were my family. And now they were gone.

Dead.

Murdered.

By Andrew Kempton.

How could two men cause so much death and destruction? I wondered. And why me?

Because you are born under the bad luck star, something in me whispered.

I laughed quietly. That I am.

"I'm so sorry, Mom, Dad…" I said to the picture in my hands. "But I promise I'll get Andrew Kempton. He won't get away for what he did. There will be justice…"

And then I bowed over and cried, my lunch forgotten.

Twenty-four hours later, I was checking out of the hospital. I followed Uncle Simon back to his hotel. My house on The Point was apparently still officially a crime scene. He got me a room next to his.

Later that day, I sneaked out of my room and 'borrowed' Uncle Simon's rented car. I drove all the way back to my house on The Point.

It was dark and quiet. But it was my home.

I made my way to the crumbling lighthouse, and slowly made my way to the top.

There, alone, I let loose my grief and bawled at my loss. I remembered again all the happy years with Mom and Mike, and the pain of losing them both.

And there, alone, I let go of my mask of indifference, and remembered the family I knew I still have and their obvious love for me. Up here in my crumbling lighthouse, I imagined them hugging, loving and comforting me.

And alone I apologized to Vanessa, who must surely be heart-broken to learn that I forgot about her.

That really was for best.

But too many people have been mortally hurt on my account.

That is why I am alone now. So that no one else will get hurt on my account again. No one else will die because they came to care for me. I was once Joe Hardy. A series of happenings made me Joe Black. Black is for elegance and style. But I turned that elegance into tragedy and mourning. I am now Joe Black. That is what I am – Black. I am born under the bad luck star.

So I sat there a long time, alone in my very own old and crumbling lighthouse perch atop a cliff overlooking the Great South Bay, pretending that it was okay to be alone.

I sat there a long time, thinking of ways to find Andrew Kempton and to bring him to justice.

Then I realized how far wrong and deluded I was.

Andrew Kempton would never let me go. He would never let those around me go.

My cell phone rang – to me it felt that the ringing was almost ominous.

I looked at the caller ID.

It was Fenton Hardy. Dad.

A really bad feeling invaded my guts.

But I picked up the phone in trepidation.

"Joe! Thank God you're all right. Where are you?!"

Fenton's voice was almost frantic.

"Frank, Callie and Vanessa are all missing…"


	20. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17!_

_I had wanted to post this a little earlier as a mother's day thing. But sorry, I just could not work up an appetite for McDonalds._

_franknjoe: this chapter you'll see you're right, the little favor's not little at all. Yup its finished, but I'll tightened it a little before posting. Plus clean up the grammar a little._

_Thanks Jessica, Bhar and raphfreak for leaving a line. It makes it worth the effort to write :)  
_

_Please enjoy, cheers.  
_

* * *

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

**Chapter Seventeen**

-o-

The half-naked young woman sprawled across the bed in a deluxe room of the Radisson hotel had an expression of absolute ecstasy as her death mask. Her skin was alabaster white, a startling contrast to the crimson red of her lips. The effect was something rather surreal and even a little eerie.

"At least she died happy," Bill Anson commented wryly.

Frank shook his head at his partner's tasteless comment. Then again, Bill had never been known for his tact, and that was why he was remained a detective for the last twenty years despite his skills and experience.

"Wondered what killed her?" Bill mused as he continued examining the room.

"No signs of forced entry, and no signs of any other person in the room with her," Frank said. "But I do wonder what's she's been eating or drinking."

On the elaborately carved wooden side table was a lipstick stained glass half filled with water, and several pieces of tissue. There appeared to be some white residue on it.

"So, an OD, you think?" Bill asked.

Frank shrugged as he loaded those tissues into an evidence bag, taking care not to lose any of that few specks of whitish powder. "Possibly… can't be certain till the autopsy and lab tests are done."

"Okay, I'm done," Bill announced.

"Me too," Frank said, and waved for the forensic team to take over.

He followed his partner down into the lobby after leaving a number of specific instructions regarding the unknown white residue and the autopsy.

"It is rumored that two new designer drugs, just hit the market just three or four days back," Bill suddenly said as he lit up a cigarette and took a deep puff once they're out of the hotel. "Each drug's apparently being pushed by a different syndicate. Supposed to give an incredible high… but also said to be highly addictive. The ultimate money making machine was what the bosses are harping about."

Frank lifted his brow surprised. He had not heard about that. Then again, he was totally taken up by the Blacks cases and his brother. Today was his first day back at work.

"Psychedelic drugs rarely last long before they're overtaken by something else," Frank commented.

"Perhaps," Bill responded. "Have you heard about the homicide case last night?"

Frank shook his head. There was one?

"According to Officer James, that guy mutilated and killed himself. And he died happy, joyously happy with a big smile on his face. James said that was the creepiest thing he saw in his twenty year career…" Bill finished before drawing another deep puff of smoke.

Something about the way Bill said it gave Frank the spooks.

"The cases might be related then," Frank said instead. "I'll take a look at Jame's report when I get back to the office."

"You do that, Frank. You do that. But first, grab yourself some lunch."

"What about you?" Frank asked wondering what Bill was up to.

"I just saw the girl's driver's license," Bill said, handing him another evidence bag. "I know her. Well, sort of. I know her mother. I'll have to tell the chief that, and you'll probably be working with someone else for this one. Conflict of interest…"

Frank nodded. He understood.

"Well, take the car. I'll be taking a walk to clear my head. See you back at the station, kiddo," Bill said with a wave as he headed down the road. "And remember to eat your lunch."

Frank watched Bill disappeared round the corner and headed back to the car.

At the back of his mind, concerns over the whereabouts of Andrew Kempton and what he might be planning lingered. Thank god his father runs a private practice and was able to continue working full time on that. And thanks god that Sam was willing to give up potential earnings to help them out.

But Frank forced himself to focus on the case on hand, which he already had a bad feeling about. New drugs, possible OD deaths, different gangs involved… all points towards a potential turf war, Frank thought. As a detective with the BPD, he had a responsibility towards the State, at least during his official work hours. What he did after that would be his own business.

So deeply in thought Frank was, he failed to notice the dark alley behind him. Not that there was much he could do if he had notice given that he was outnumbered. He was reaching for his keys when a number of hands reached out of the shadows and dragged him into that alleyway. The car keys clattered onto the ground.

Minutes later, a gloved hand picked up the keys and left it in the car door.

From a second floor window across the street, a pair of terrified young eyes watched what happened.

Ten minutes later, a punky youth happened to chance upon the car with the keys in conveniently in the door. He drove the car away happily, unable to believe his good fortune.

-o-

It was just about dinner time.

Fenton Hardy was glad to get out of that greasy and smoked filled burger bar on the East End. He could not help feeling disappointed. That tipoff on Kempton was another dud. It was another dead end. He sighed and head back to his car. He could only hope Sam had better luck than him.

His cell phone rang. "Hardy here."

"Fenton, is Frank with you?"

That was Chief Collig, and he sounded grave. Fenton felt his heart beating a little harder.

"No… he's back at work today, isn't he?" As far as Fenton's concern that bodes ill.

"He is," Collig confirmed. "But no one seemed to have seen him since, as far as I can determine, about lunch time. He's not picking up his phone, as a matter of fact, his phone's shut off, and I've been trying to find him for the last ten minutes…"

"Who's the last person with him?" Fenton asked, even as he picked up his pace towards his car. "And when?"

"Bill, Frank's partner on the case, was the last to see him before they parted for lunch. Frank was supposed to deliver a bag of evidence from the crime scene back to the office. As far as I can determine, he never arrived… and it seemed the car's missing as well."

"And Bill?" Fenton asked as he unlocked the door to his car. _Shouldn't Bill know what happened to Frank since lunch?_

"Bill knew the victim and was removed from the case, so he assumed Frank was paired with someone else and off interviewing suspects…" Collig explained.

At that point, something else hits Fenton. "Ezra… why are you looking for Frank?"

The silence from the other end was deafening.

"Ezra?!"

"The safe house's been compromised… Callie and Vanessa's missing…"

Fenton stilled. Callie and Vanessa missing, Frank's missing…

"I sent a team over when the officers on duty missed their regular call-ins. They found Meg and Tommy unconscious, and the two girls missing. We believed there were at least four assailants…"

"And Joe? Is he still with Leron?" Fenton asked.

"I'm about to check that out," Collig answered. "I'll be increasing patrol around that hotel and sending two officers over… we'll have to move…"

Fenton hung up. He was desperately searching for Leron's business card from his files. Then he cursed. He had Joe's number. He rang Joe instead.

"Come on Joe," he muttered as he started the engines and raced towards the hotel. "Pick up the phone."

"Hello?"

The voice was tentative. But it was Joe's and never had Fenton felt so relieved in his life.

"Joe! Thank God you're all right. Where are you?!" Fenton blurted out.

He held his cell phone so tightly to his ear, it hurts. But he was desperate to get the confirmation that his younger son was still in the hotel with Leron. Simon Leron had enough experience to keep Joe safe under normal circumstances.

"Frank, Callie and Vanessa are all missing," Fenton added almost frantically as an explanation. "Now, where are you?!"

He knew he was not being reasonable or coherent. But he was desperate. He was scared. He was driving. And he was on the phone chatting.

"What…?!"

Joe sounded shocked. Scared? And Fenton cursed himself for his momentary loss of control.

Then Joe spoke again. This time, Joe's voice's more controlled, or perhaps colder? Fenton could not decide. But it had the effect of calming him down.

"Dad. Calm down. Tell me what happened."

"The safe house's been compromised. Both girls were taken…" Fenton found himself rattling off what Sean Freeman just told him. "… and Frank's been missing since about lunch time…" he finished off.

"Joe? You still there?" Fenton asked when all he could hear was heavy breathing from the other end.

"I'm coming over right now, son," Fenton said as he turned his car onto the road leading to the hotel. "Just wait for me. You're still at the hotel, right?"

There was no response from the other end.

"Joe… you're still at the hotel, right?" Fenton asked again, but this time he had a feeling the answer would be negative.

He slowed the car down, and then parked it at the side of the road. It mattered not that he just parked illegally.

"No…"

Joe's reply was soft, almost inaudible.

"Where are you now?" The father asked, this time, his voice was amazingly calm.

There was no answer. But he could hear deep breaths being taken.

"Joe?"

Then he thought he heard a soft grunt. That was followed by a loud clattering sound.

Joe dropped the phone? Fenton thought, and that thought was obliterated by a rising fear.

"Joe!" He yelled into the phone.

Come on, answer me! Fenton pleaded in his heart as he yelled his son's name into his phone a second, then a third time.

Then he heard a soft mocking laughter. That laughter grew louder, and louder, until it was suddenly cut off.

The line went dead.

For a moment, Fenton just sat there staring blankly into nothingness.

He knew that laugh. He could never forget that laugh.

"Mr. Hardy!" he thought he heard someone call him from a distance.

"Mr. Hardy!" You okay?"

Fenton turned his head towards that youthful voice. It was a traffic cop. Apparently that cop knew him. He blinked.

Kempton got Joe, was all Fenton could think about. And he got Frank, and Callie, and Vanessa too…

"Are you having car trouble?" That cop asked, even though the voice sounded like it was floating towards him from miles away.

He needed to get to the crime scene. While the trails still hot. That might be his only chance to find Joe, and perhaps Frank and the others too. But where? Joe said he's not at the hotel…

"Mr. Hardy!"

Fenton jerked back to the present.

"Call for back up. We need to get to the lighthouse on The Point," he told the traffic cop. "Something just happened there. It's a crime scene. Check with Chief Collig if you have to. But get someone up there NOW."

With that, Fenton started his engines and drove off again, leaving behind a befuddled traffic cop talking frantically into his radio.

-o-

An hour later, the house on The Point was crawling with police yet again.

Fenton sat on the rung of a rusty ladder staring at the spot where it happened.

On the ground not far away from that spot was a rusty broken iron pipe. There were traces of blood on it, and several strands of blonde hair. The father had no doubt DNA testing would confirmed the blood and hair as belonging to his younger son.

Using the patterns of disturbed dust, the PI reconstructed what happened in his mind.

Joe was sitting there possibly staring out into the sea. Kempton came up from behind and hit him with that pipe. Joe never had a chance to fight back. His son fell onto the ground, and the cell phone clattered across the floor. Kempton followed the path of the cell phone, picked it up, heard Fenton's voice on the other end, laughed and then terminated the call. Then he placed the cell phone on the ledge with a short note before leaving with Joe, who's most likely unconscious at that point.

The note was brutally clear and simple:

_So Fenton, are you feeling alone and lonely yet?_

"We'll find him."

Fenton looked up to see Simon Leron looking down grimly at him. He could see a tightly controlled anger behind those green eyes. Apparently Chief Collig had called the lawyer after failing to get through to Fenton, and Leron, on discovering that Joe disappeared with his rental car, figured that Joe would have gone home to his place on The Point.

"We'll find them," Leron said calmly. "But we won't be able to do that if you all you do is stay here and wallow over what already happened."

"Joe was talking to me," Fenton confessed. "If I wasn't on the phone distracting him, he might have heard Kempton's approach."

"You don't know that, Hardy," Leron countered. "No one knows what actually happened up here. But there's one thing I know for certain. Every second you waste up here moaning over your supposed mistake is one extra second Kempton gain to carry out his agenda."

Leron was right of course.

"That's why I'm not wasting time wondering why didn't I hire two jailers at half the cost to make sure Joe stayed in his hotel room instead of spending a fortune trying to hire two of the best security experts I know."

Fenton smiled a little at that thinly veiled exasperated tone in Leron's voice. Joe never liked to be confined or restricted in any way.

"Thanks," Fenton said as he stood up slowly.

He was tired.

Then Officer Con Riley appeared at the stairwell.

"Chief Collig just called. He said to tell you that the reports from the safe house are in, and there are some new developments. He said you might want to go through them," Con announced. "And chief said to tell you that Sam's already there waiting."

"Thanks Con," Fenton responded.

And as he walked past Con, he felt a friendly hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder.

"Don't worry. We'll find them. We won't rest till we do. We won't let Kempton get away this time."

There was this determined glint in Con's eyes. Fenton felt his eyes mist. Con and his boys had always been close, ever since Frank and Joe started dabbling in little cases when they were sixteen and fifteen

"Thanks," he managed to choke out to Con before leaving with Leron.

They have work to do back at the Station. It's going to be a long night.

-o-

The skies were just turning grey, and the first golden ray from the rising sun just broke from the East.

A skinny and aged looking man in tattered clothes was making his way towards the Bayport Police Station. He had a delivery to make. The man who gave him the package promised him that the Bayport police would treat him to a scrumptious breakfast in exchange for that package. As he neared the station, he started to have misgivings about what he was about to do. He halted at the main entrance, the nervousness and uncertainty written on his face. Then he stomach growled. He hadn't had a good hot steaming breakfast for years!

'What are you so worried about, Ross?' the man asked himself. 'You have nothing to lose and a hot breakfast to gain.'

He took a deep breath, tidied up his tattered clothes the best he could, and stepped into the police station. The place was relatively empty, it was still early. He headed straight to the front desk – if that could be called a front desk.

"I would like to see either Chief Collig or Fenton Hardy," he said to the young man at the counter.

"It's important," he added when the young officer told him that both Chief Collig and Fenton Hardy were busy and unavailable. "It concerns a missing homicide detective."

Things got moving pretty fast after that.

One hour later, he was digging into one of the best breakfast he ever had in years. They even gave him a second helping if he's willing to stay a little longer while they viewed the recording.

Later, they offered him lunch if he stayed to help provide a sketch of the man that gave him the package.

Even later, they offered him dinner if he stayed, in case they had more questions.

That day was heaven-sent, Ross thought happily. He would remember it for the rest of his life.

-o-

The mood in the conference room was tensed and somber as Chief Collig inserted the recording into the player for the selected members of the investigative team.

The recording was clearly a cheap and simple home made production.

But the contents were painful to watch, only because the 'star' of the production was one of their own.

It opened with a simple title that was clearly printed in New Times Roman block letters:

THE EFFECTIVENESS AND POTENCY OF AMBROSIA

A blurred image of several whitish colored pills appeared on the screen followed by another set of printed text:

TEST SUBJECT: FRANK HARDY

In smaller print below that was a mockery of the usual copyright statement.

_For distribution and viewing of selected vendors and interested suppliers of Ambrosia only._

That was followed by a close up shot of Frank's badge and photo-ID. A disguised voice was narrating Frank Hardy's background as a homicide detective, and his record in solving crimes and taking down various criminals. Much focus was given to Frank's stand on drug trafficking and the various supplier networks that he helped to close down. The perfect test subject for the effectiveness of Ambrosia addiction, the narrator concluded before flashing to the next scene.

It started with the shot of four whitish pills seated innocently on a palm. At the top right hand corner of the screen was a running clock. The pills were then dissolved in some liquid and drawn into a syringe. At the bottom of the screen was a simple message: Oral consumption produces the best effect, but injection method recommended for stubborn clients.

There were two masked thugs holding a struggling Frank down. It was clear from the bruises that Frank had endured a beating. A third guy appeared on scene. He held up the syringe to the camera before proceeding to inject its contents into Frank's arm. A short while later, Frank stopped struggling.

The screen turned black for a fraction of a second before resuming. It was now almost three hours later. Frank was now strapped down to a metal frame bed. He was moving restlessly, clearly in some discomfort. A masked man again appeared on screen. This time he held up the syringe in front of Frank's eyes. Frank tensed. The camera zoomed in. It was clear that Frank was repelled by as well as drawn towards that syringe. That scene ended with Frank turning his face away as the masked man again injected the contents into his arm.

Another three hours flew by in darkness on screen. Frank was still strapped down on the bed. He was clearly extremely distressed. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. Again, a masked man appeared on screen. This time, he held three pills on his palm before the camera before showing it to Frank. The camera zoomed in. That spark of interest in those brown eyes was undeniable. It was quickly followed by an expression of self-disgust. Then the eyes snapped tightly closed as Frank pushed himself further back into the bed and away from those pills. But the truth was, he did not fight it when the masked man placed those pills in his mouth. He simply drank the water and swallowed them.

Fast forward another three hours. Frank was no longer strapped down to the bed. But he was not making any attempts to escape either. He simply sat there in the corner of the room with his arms held tightly around his knees rocking. When he looked up, his face was pale and sweaty, his eyes red and glazed. He was staring at the palm holding three little pills. His mouth opened slightly before snapping shut. His fingers were gripping so tightly onto his sides, it cuts into the flesh and drew blood. The audio turned on, and soft mocking laughter could be heard.

"Still stubborn, I see," the voice commented.

A masked man approached Frank with the pills.

"Open your mouth," the voice ordered.

Frank opened his mouth. He almost grabbed the tumbler of water to help wash down the pills. His actions stood in stark contrast to the tears streaming down the side of his face. The expression on the face was one who knows that he was on his way down, and was unable to stop it, because at the end of the day he was a willing partner to that downward slide.

"Next time, you would have to pay for your fix, Frankie…" the voice sounded triumphant.

But it was also clear from the recording that Frank by then was too far gone to hear what was being said.

And it was another three hours later on screen time.

And the scene showed…

Fenton Hardy snatched the remote control from Chief Freeman and shut off the recording. His heart was pounding. His breathing was deep and uneven. His heart hurts.

What one would do for the next fix? The respectable PI thought dully. The evils of drugs…

Fenton stared at the dark screen. Then he moved towards the TV and turned it around so that he would be the only one watching. He had to, because there might be crucial information later on. But some scenes are not for others.

If he could, he would delete them all as if it never happened.

But it did, and Frank would have to live with it.

His heart wept, even as he forced himself to watch on.

Mercifully, it was over quickly.

Fenton watched with tears in his eyes as Frank accepted his next fix almost eagerly. That final scene finished with Frank caught in the throes of Ambrosia, clearly enjoying its effects.

THE END

But no, there was more. The clock was still running.

The masked man again appeared on screen.

"I hope you enjoyed the show, Hardy. Frankie here is a tough nut to crack. You might want to know most people cracked by their third dose. Frankie here took five. Perhaps having a son as an addict would help you learn some compassion and empathy towards other addicts, especially those who turned peddlers or criminals. And oh, that was the last dose we're giving him. Ambrosia's too valuable to be wasted on the likes of a cop. We're going to just dump him in some dark corner for him to make his own way home. Don't blame us, Hardy. We're merely returning you cops the favor given what you cops think of us. And oh, I think you better find Frankie before his need for his next fix drives him to do the unthinkable, huh?"

A number of mocking laughter filled the air.

Then there was a scene where Frank was shoved into a dark alleyway clad only in his boxers.

"Good luck hunting, Hardy."

And that was the end of the recording.


End file.
